The Hangman Of The Sea

The electric-cherry tentacles,
wafting with the ember tempo
of a coiled stove burner.
Lattice flesh tassels, hitching a ride
on the undertow like artisan
blood in a butcher’s sink.

Ominous articulation,
the tiny tips curl backwards.
And the scorpion stingers
are poised before
launching- a singular motion,
a farewell salute.

Cold, collected, and callous,
eight liquid anchors. And me,
in my blindfold of stained glass
saltwater,
bobbing infantile under
the swank moon.

Dancing downward
through the heat-less plane
of vertebrae darkness, I came
upon a sloping atoll. Sipping idle,
and clearing the earthen chlorine from
my parched and putrid pupils; I was lured.

As the escalator descended, my toes talked
loosely in blue whilst winking adieu to
solace and shore. And gallant in my
blindness; the noose, I did savor.
For the hangman’s face, 
I would never see.