Cold Waters Poem by soren Barrett

Morning on the Keys, seventy three degrees, lobster omelet with conhaque and Gruyere cheese in the shade of banyan trees
Cuban cigar on the table, Johnnie Walker blue label, pretty young wife, stole of sable, yacht moored by cable
It was winter they said, satin sheets of red spread as he lay overfed on his king-size bed, seconds into hours sped
Outside a breeze, inside him a disease, that try as you please, no one flees even sailing through the solace of these Keys
Inside no one read how he bled dread, from which he fled, that led to him putting a piece of lead in his head