The death of anger - a poem

Through straights of twisted bone and water made of bile, a ship sails...

The captain takes the sextant out of the eye of the last good man and sighs, "This is no sacred land - it's a nest of broken dreams and lies".

Then the sirens songs begins anew and the heart floods with want and desire, but alas it's only a chimera burning in loves fire.

The sirens eyes only see what her soul wants - she covets that which is on her lips grasp - the seed of man, which he'll pay with cloying taunts.

Through the straights of despair a ship sails upon a child's tears...

The crew are not but empty rotting husks - and the captain sits upon a throne of bones - a shimmer of sound, trickles a bloody tone.

He looks for the sound - but only see the sirens bare breasts heaving with pleasure - again he looks and she is entwined with rancor.

The captain stares at the water, and his gasping mouth - the moan is just his soul that has come about - the cold realization that the death of anger signals the death of it all - that last inch is the furthest to fall

The death of anger - is the death of it all