Gloomy and dark expanse of water
Covered too brittle ships.
My weary poem is a squatter
Under my skin -- dissected snips.
And fragile thin wrist crunches
Like the first snow.
My broken ribs wrapped branches
Of sadness, frustration and throe.
My subconscious lulls nightmare,
Stringing no beads but vertebrae.
Can you feel the smell of my hair?
The smell of sea wave in a hectic bay.