Hymns of Salt and Terror

play not those hymns of salt and terror
for though they smell of poppy
and taste of sweet
their very tone
condemns the player
to water’s ire, the belly of the sea

lend not their false notes, my child
for in their octaves
dead fishwives weep
and curse the waves
that push you deeper
that fill your sails with treachery

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

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