THE INTROSPECTION CHRONICLES 8 | DEBRIS (SIDE A)

There are stories in the wind,
weeping with the rain, pushing sleep away,
wailing within the rattling rafters.
There are stories on our lips,
feeding off our fears, shuffling with our feet,
creaking with the wooden shutters.
It is the sea that dumps her stories on us.
There they are; debris.

They are not hers anymore.
They are us now; our new bodies,
our new sins, our new penances,
the new scar tissue to tame our skins.
Our bodies are debris on the shore like
migrant boats splattered with siren song.
The shore picks his way to the sea,
kissing her and forgetting her pain,
forgetting us; debris.

The shadows have eaten everything
and the sun has wings in the heat.
Bleached bones point directions
to weary travelers seeking a place to die.
These are the stories on our lips
but we have forgotten how to begin;
once upon a time, a world breathed.
Once upon a time, a world ended.
We are rapt with attention,
waiting to be filled to swelling; debris.

Dogs only howl at night
when the wolves are not near
and no moon is in sight.
Men howl when pain has eaten deep
and when like the lost
we offer our prayers in cigarette smoke,
we tell our pain to little liquor shots,
we breathe our ecstasy in opiod haze,
we pour our stories with semen stains; debris.

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_{Pixabay: Harpenz}

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POSTSCRIPT: I had to divide the poem into two parts as it became too long and bulky. I was getting more and more ideas to infuse into the poem and i didn't want to lose any. Instead of a lengthy poem that you may get bored with along the way, i thought it best to make it two separate poems. Thank you.

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warpedpoetic, 2019.