The Onedin Line

A rough collection of
nothing, echoing sadly
about the echo chamber.
Holding a thread, pulling
the fine silk so it flows
from one thing into another,
another, another, another, another –
line of the Onedin Line.
Fresh marks on an arm,
finger marks of harm.
Bruises turning from black,
to yellow, real hurt,
real pain, real perpendicular feelings –
expressed and depressed,
held closer to the chest.
I get up and walk out
into the sea, waiting for
the surf to swallow me whole.
Waiting to be buried
by the breakers
to the sound of Khachaturian.

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