Sillage

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.

 

-f.h