Poetry

139. Sunday shell-ter

(shell-ter)

(shell-ter)

Sunday,
let me rock myself to sleep
sealed hermetically in the sea-shell
of your hours,
let rain showers and the odd falling leaf
mimic the weather on my face,
on the outside.

I will tie seaweed tightly around the eyes
to avoid my reflection
on your pearl.

Sunday,
be kind. Let me pretend I am a mermaid,
that isolation is a mere side-effect of being far from
my natural habitat.
Let me hide from both sea and dry land
in the womb of your intrinsic melancholy.
Don’t end.

Within your time-proof mother’s arms,
I can forever stay the potential of what
I’ll never be.

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