On Freedom by Ed Stone

I am not a silent poet

Extraordinary

loud fear

of the tides

Assignment of police dogs

to tear out the eye

of the moon.

Passionately armor-plated

implacable moon

embraces its magnet.

Prayers of coins

are offered

burned vigilante bones.

But  the answers come

from cemetery mouths

of dead kings

Bitterly: The oceans doom us

What outcries!

As if surprised!

Abroad the life raft

still far from shore

smelling the wind

with aching stomachs

waiting waiting

the harvest of the tide:

Shore.

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