At winter's bay I stroll by the docks,
crystals of snow lay on the wet planks,
christened by the chilled wind,
the haze cries cold on my cheeks.
Welcomed into a store of fisherman's raw,
offered many dead swimmers but most I ignore,
but a dusty old book rays my keen eye,
the title 'a man who's rod was never dry'
I open this compelling sailors chronicle,
soon to discover an artist in fishing he was,
though the image given is very thrasonical,
as he goes on to often say,
'i am the best i am the best,
i must smell of fish food spray'
I learned too much boasting soon cleared his dish,
as his cause of death states,
'eaten by fish'
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Word of the day
PoesíaIn an attempt to broaden my vocabulary, I have decided to draw inspiration from Dictionary.com's 'word of the day' were they highlight a random word on the front page of their website daily, usually a word that is often unheard of. Most pieces will...
