leftovers

the black water
caresses beneath the raft
painted with oils from the fiery horizon
each hue leaks
drip by drip
far down below
to the bone chilling darkness: arms of water
igniting the reflection of the anger above
creating a mirror image of madness


six buff men drip essence of exertion
panting in a thin, unstable canoe
like a child tipping on a balance beam

upon the raft remain
six pairs of battered, torn shoes
loosened laces
soaked with life
breathing with soul
they bask in the sun quietly
awaiting their masters
like dogs chained to a leash

drifting closer to doom and dusk
the six buff men drip essence of fear
as the waves upon waves are shadows of death
screaming and taunting the poor men at sea

one man screams why
the second answers it’s the fire in my eyes
the waves groan to grasp and gobble us as their prize
the third is silent
yet his skin breaks lose with a herd of worries
another thinks I am standing on the grave of dreams
the fourth just smiles woefully
battling with his oar against reality of nature
the fifth moans
like the ghost beckoning for life
the sixth just sits
no thoughts on his mind
just writes a letter to himself
but just imagine