Gasping, choking among refuse and wreckage

crawling out of waves like hammer strokes

the sunset at our backs and broken masts silhouetted

drawn to the depths

I bend and kiss the sand

abrasive on my lips

seawater and blood in my throat, my eyes

Thank god we landed on the shores of the Republic

swept here by a false hope

the taste of it more bitter than the sea

Ahead the wind is king left to wander

by the light of corrupted stars

searching for the pawns long cast away

their throats slit and bleeding into the sea

—

—

This has got nothing to do with Plato, I swear.

—

—

Photo by Ivan Bandura on Unsplash