young death

Our reflection now contains 

Crests of waves as small 

And powerful as the 

Scarlet stained in youth’s

Constellation of masses 

Their contagious trees beseeched

Open mouths of gray 

Toil everlasting 

The earthen spring

Takers of psyche and sail 

Fallen to a spell 

Boughs of salty, savage kings 

Their cured often fallen t form 

Free not

To call nor cull 

The great golden borrower 

Beckons returns to hollow thrones 

Her spired arms 

Wasted to unkept dying gods 

Vastly held and wishing for wanderers 

The long home, an undesecrated altar 

Devoted to a reproduced hunger