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Upon the Wake
December 13, 2009
As the winds howl a storm of discontent, I grin in the icy fog.
I stand upon the mast of my ship with teeth bared, rising to face my fall.
Seas below curse and storm clouds overhead brace.
Through haze my cannons fire upon the damned, times are low.
Hours glasses in my chest crack upon the wake.
Thyne sand has turned black with decay of one thousand dead.
Sword drawn to carve the doomed, I thrust towards the sky.
Ripping open the clouds, my cold heart eats away what's left.
What's left of our storm of discontent, and what's left upon the wake.
© Kim B., Marblehead, MA
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