The Ferry Goes

A poem about regret.

Crossing with or without you, the ferry goes, back and forth, from shore to shore, harboring the drunkard, the shriveled spineless man

Evil eaten in the dead of night stays as clutter in the stomach, an evil deed festers in the mind, just as a dusty clock without hands, yet ticking away, mindlessly, ticking ticking

A circus spectacle with clowns happy and frowning, a hall of mirrors, shattered glass in your abdomen, pick them out, one shard at a time, for every time you touched her

They come with torches, a disfigured countenance, and ignorance in heaps as they witness the abomination you've labeled your abode since the beginning of beginningless time

March with your madness and tenderly caress your regret as the windmills cautiously blow in a desolate wind, a straightaway staircase takes you to the attic with flowers on fire

Porches dimly lit with streetlights are hazy and disfigured on the mind, wander alone, you will, in a chaotic aftermath, created by the blood on your hands

The End

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