This is where people go to drink and leave
empty shells behind;
where people go to drink and stare
over the lake burned by Winter's glare -
waiting to be picked up, waiting for more time.
It's the port they visit in hopes to be dragged down
because somewhere Atlantis exists
and their past will become a myth.
Metal shells float and bob -
Their heads banging against the shore,
feet unable to touch the floor.
Plastic vessels poke from the dirt
Their throats filling with salt water.
The girl on shore? Not her.
They get pushed deeper and deeper; no storm
no force can surface them.
Fish and other bystanders choke;
some innocently get lodged deep inside
waiting for the afraid to open up and confide.
Comentarios