291 – Poseidon


Man, the man you are
appears as out of sea fog
when you shave down
the burly anemone
of a fuck-off beard you wear
around like a threat.
When did you claim
the tarnished crown?

Washed up on shore
among the sleeping
battleships you wandered,
glinting hard.  A sound
fathoms deeper than
the growling tide saying
take what was always yours. 

Mermaid kiss. Bullion.
Salt sting. Trident.
Your own face
hovering covered
in old wire, creeping
rust, barnacles
and seaweed.
Come clean.
Be thee.

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