The Roaring Forties

Glass, old and rheumy, like a mariner’s sea-worn eyes;
paper, yellowed and brittle, from many long years
inside. A scrawl of swirls like deep-sea shells,
from times and lands unknown, writ by a hand
bleached clean by salt, down by Neptune’s throne:

My one true love, to cold embrace,
this ocean calls me now. To frigid sleep
in chambers deep, I soon will ferry down.
My ship is stilled, yours must sail on
to daybreak, happiness and wonder
beyond. My love for you, with final breath,
shall endure, I swear, through life
and past death.

A pale sun kisses Sorrento sand, as gulls swoop
to play amongst foam; a bottle borne
by indifferent waves, carries its burden home.

– Ryan Stone

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