A strange beauty flows
from objects in the
early morning silence
of a sailor’s mid-watch;
and yet,
I am held in the security
of my thoughts;
the streetlamp’s glow
illuminates these
towering monsters,
giving up the mysteries
they protect;
calmly they sit in the
morning waters,
mutely awaiting their
rum-soiled masters
who will unleash their
power once again,
like a rat awaiting
a dew-drying sun and
the return of a
psychopathic society;
the shattering reality of
the morning light
crushes my fantasy
and I see these specters
as pieces of cold, hard, cruel steel
formed in the eye
of a perfect storm
by disciples of power, who
are insecure souls lost
within the tunnels
of their own fears.
September 1977
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