By Stefani Scissorhands

 I awoke in the pitch of night.
A ghost ship on the horizon.
It’s horn resonating against melting glaciers.

I make binoculars with my hands.
My ear pressed to the glass.
A gentle symphony weaves through the air.
Apparitions dance along icebergs.

They pause when they see me.
I wave. They smile.

I watch as their ship anchors to the bottom of the sea.
An understanding that they won’t make it to the city.
Now I question them for dancing,
But they insist it’s for the memories.


Created: Nov 13, 2012


Document Media

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