Cyclone

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Moana’s Canvas

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Her cheeks awash with crimson
blush, green eyes gambol
in sunset glow. Betwixt wet lips,
a Mermaid’s kiss; her breathy,
soothing ebb and flow.

Blood orange tears
smear her eyes, emerald gems lap
untouched shores. Her song, the glide
and swoop of gulls, her laughter
the gentle sway of oars.

She smells of seduction and
secret spice, from ports steeped
in mystery. She holds me close,
a salty lover’s embrace,
as dusk dances over the sea.

Ryan Stone

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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He Who Fights Monsters

I won’t survive this dark night’s lunar sea.
Waves crash against the fortress of my mind.
An endless ebb and flow of misery
Has seeped into the Labyrinth I designed.

No atlas, compass, sextant can give aid
In evil vaults where stars are scared to shine.
My tears and screams, once birthed, so quickly fade—
To drown with hope beyond the high-tide line.

I’ve raced before a tempest wind so long,
My hull is breached beyond my skill to caulk.
No dawn for me, I chase a siren’s song
To straits so dire that all but monsters balk.

On feathered wings of wax at last I see—
There is no abyss but the one in me.

Ryan Stone

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