an inner island
full
of snaky trees
wriggling upwards
to the canopy
where the light
is cast in shadows
the rocks, on that forsaken shore
crush
curious ships
frigates, that think
they can test
her waters.
the island was born from hell
lava, boiling, gassing, cutting
with obsidian glass
an abomination, of the deep.
Survivors
on her shore
gradually go mad in the sun
their shadows, don’t belong to them
their faces, are twisted
their words, belong to someone else
the longer they listen
the longer they hear
temptation.
Any shelter
built there
is not a shelter
it is a confining prison.
though many find the island, and believe it’s paradise
they quickly become thirsty, blistered, and bitten
by mosquitoes that suck the blood from marine life.
Few leave the island
many try, but the tides push them back
Some, build life rafts
but they always sink
it takes a strong swimmer, to keep swimming
it takes a death wish
it takes something, nobody has
never to look back
at that place
condemned to brimstone
the salt burning the open sores
a pillar, like a lighthouse
without any light in it.
the lapping, laughing waves
so beautiful
a vacation spot
never go there
erase the island from the map
it would be better to drown
lost at sea
than move inland
where the goats stare at you
with red eyes
and bahhhhh.
A poem worthy of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.
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that’s quite the compliment, Liz! And strange, the garden of earthly delights is one of my favorite paintings.
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Ah, our subconscious comes on in our work in some unexpected ways!
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Yes indeed!!! 🙂
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