All the grounds are dead.
The hills are naught but
markers of a thousand doom-craven men.
Bury their flesh and watch the headstones
rot… and crash… and surge.
The flotsam of decay eating through
the hulls of our ships.
Morose spray flits into my eyes;
sloughing skin peels from my heels.
Wailing, “Load the harpoon gun,”
as the bone-whales breach and beach.
We can ride a carcass ashore
and strip his blubber there.
Growing grains may be failed fodder, but
we’ll fire them all the same.
Those men were always so;
the dead were never living.
Telling myself my fate is different.
Kiss me, then…
Before we’re drug under.

Listen to these Readings

Kyle Tolle reciting ‘The Cost of Capital’

This is the first poem I have written in a long time.  Felt really good to write it.  I enjoy mixing metaphors of land and sea. Please comment below with your feedback!

This is also my first foray into providing mp3 versions of my posts. I like the idea, so will probably continue doing so.