Inching

A sort of prelude to my poem "Bedlam of Our Bed

Tingle of the tip,

Colored of Violence,

Leering with its slit, sightless,

As it inches,

Fumbling through the damp tendrils

Of the polluted ocean.

 

This sea is sweaty and dark with deep waters,

Swirling into a mist of heaving tissue,

No fish dwell there, but the scent lingers,

The waves crash on above this nook,

Fighting with the energy as the hell-hole pushes; as it breathes.

 

Tingle of the tip,

As it inches,

Closer,

And hot air is exhaled; smell of gasoline.

 

I get closer,

Tingling on my tip,

Inching,

Never touching.

Author's Note

This was a quick work, but it comes straight from the heart.

Reviews

[hopelessromantic]

i felt that inside it was great

[Kat Collins]

Incredible imagery! I love how you associate the ocean, the smells, the brinyness - and I love the use of the word "inching" as though it were a sea creature.

[alexlessah]

Very nice.

[Steph K]

Vivid, expressive and insightful. A great piece.

[Amy Bumpas]

When I read this poem, it reminds me of suicide. Nice work here...

[kdpgrahi]

So lively I can feel your sea, its lingering scent, the hell=hole while I try to inch through. I great write. Keep in writing.

[Kristine Ferg]

A well-crafted piece. I love your use of words and how you've focused on depicting the story rather then say it outright-ly so. Very intriguing

[Labu]

Thanks for sharing this fine poem. Love it :)