Inching

A sort of prelude to my poem "Bedlam of Our Bed

Tingle of the tip,

Colored of Violence,

Leering with its slit, sightless,

As it inches,

Fumbling through the damp tendrils

Of the polluted ocean.

 

This sea is sweaty and dark with deep waters,

Swirling into a mist of heaving tissue,

No fish dwell there, but the scent lingers,

The waves crash on above this nook,

Fighting with the energy as the hell-hole pushes; as it breathes.

 

Tingle of the tip,

As it inches,

Closer,

And hot air is exhaled; smell of gasoline.

 

I get closer,

Tingling on my tip,

Inching,

Never touching.

Author's Note

This was a quick work, but it comes straight from the heart.

Reviews

[tHe]

Beautiful.

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the description and the use of the English language. You making the poem come alive create a vision of sea and pollution.
"The waves crash on above this nook,
Fighting with the energy as the hell-hole pushes; as it breathes."
Thank you for a excellent poem.

[Junger]

very interesting i see plenty of dark thinking as well as a good work

[SinnerInspired]

Love the detail& I love the rhythm to it Its creative& clever Good Work

[DONALD EISSLER]

quick but very good
tk