With a low percentage of the summer's borrowed flaws,
We coursed on the Main, so tamed and sinuous, from the city firth.
I swear to the ceremonies of farewell when a muted bugle signalled
From wetted resonance, the beginning of the drift.
It was somewhere beneath dawn's yawning spree - on the breath of
8 a.m. and a little further.
Thursday waited to puke on me, the vestiges of dreary, gloomy filth.
And I stood sentry on the forked way of depression, expecting grease,
Weed, tangles and fogs of a depraved autumn...
But then, her Leo spoke in jest of the usual tragedy of the fourth day.
NAUTILUS, white and merry, slid quietly...
Friday, August 16, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: philosophy