poetry

islands

No man is an island, though he designs to be.

            Island.
      No man is an island,
  Though he designs to be.
He builds it with inactivity,
  His lethargy,
    His anti-sociality.
      He wishes of waters,
  That they drown him
In obscurity.

  But he’s seen;
    Nonetheless, he’s seen.

        Blooming on the sail,
        And green;

    Like the grape, he’s pristine
  For the plucking.

Yet, half-chuckling,
  He dizzies the fervor:
      Culled and after shucking,
    He holds his choices.
  Voiceless, he sings;
The doorbell rings
  Of forgetfulness.
      Rings mean
            Nothing.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Crab
        https://windstrewn.com/2017/12/07/crab/


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