A blessing, could it have been. Forbidding, but why of the positions brim over as the very ocean founded upon. Not of all cause of it so, should it be seen as this, struck leading the clashing waves, oasis linger solely in the bridges of the sea’s storm.
Calming nothing, as the whitecaps grow and grow, taking all down in the navies astringent brackish drink.
To in the crashes, of an angry wave, cleavers the ship distant as rice paper, cracking like cancer-filled bones, and seeping akin to oil dark blood. As the yellow moon hovers over the sea, for comes the hours of darkness where sky and water form one shape to ‘til only one world.
For, in the distance, the ship goes farther into the deep, neighboring that quiet town’s shore that come morning, will all the remains of the decay sailors.
One found in the impend of the skin shredding rocks, rests, batter in discolor blemishes, thin scars stung raw from the very ocean, in sake of breathing the blue hue lips try hard to bring forth air into needed lungs.
As bare to lines of ripped flesh, from what could only been known as a lover or in worth cases, a rapist. Purpled in a deepest night growled, angering the flesh, but in all was eerily calm. The pressure of that fading body that held close, chapped lips flex against hoarfrost pelt.
Whispering as winds brushed past every flex given. Grasping air, the mere bless; flutters the heart, but wrings the soul in sureness if it should listen to it or not. Cracking dry lips, words slip, earning the grip to tighten.
When along those unnoticed ways, the life on land walks on and awake, as the sea life splashes and creeps in matter changes, a cycle that hang about unbroken, and unknowingly the same, it kept on.
Faint soon of little high fables, calling in low harsh telling tales, of drifting sirens coming upon booming and forever echoing that sank so many boats of fishermen, ships of travelers and pirates, and Dockers full of slaves.
In rare, lower static classes every make through, as sirens enjoy those the most in coming nights.
A night leading as now, made no difference. The man of no name, saved, baring lasting memories on his soft tissue, his men gone or unfound by the human eye.
Forbidding blessing to survive the sea, but forbidding even more so, to never speak of it again, with tired eyes look upon to those watered ones, a smile will break, but nothing more as the eyes shut again; to see or die, only the lonely abuse hearted siren knows, as in soon she releases the man, to his finally resting place to what she had come to know it as, and always.
The Mermaid by Howard Pyle
Made in the year; 1910
Location of when painted; unknown
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