As the jocund seconds flow

through a sunken brine to an air rotten

dark, amort and long-forgotten

and I yearn to be tainted beneath mellow blue

till none could catch a sound anymore

till none could seek to heed the score.


I must soon leave this  baneful grave

haunted by a more enduring sillage

that delights at wreckage before age

Hence, I flee from which no armor can save

till my heart could cease to ache

till my lungs could respire with no shake.


The odor, the herald of a lethal trap

cold and yet ethereal; it draws in every vestige

beacon’d in my pyre, paves way to its own prestige

Swiftly, it feeds upon my breath; what a solicitous mishap!

till I affy by its mighty side

till I stand its fatal stroke and abide.





2 thoughts on “Sillage

  1. Splendid. I mean it as a compliment when I say this, when I read your verses I have to refer to the dictionary … please keep enlightening with your vocabulary. Also, it has been a while since you posted, so welcome back. 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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