Pride

This illusive

Puppeteer

Moves me onto center stage

Bound by his seditious wire

Unbreakable

Except by fire

As tendrils raise defiant fists

My voice

But not my voice

Insists

“I am free”

Last Poem

As daylight backs away

From the window

And a lamp

Is left to prop up the

Shadows

Two hands pillow a

Thin paperback

Tucking words in

For the night

Ramekins

White as bone

Half buried in sand

In three orderly

Rows

Their wooden cupboard

Casket

Has dissolved

In the indiscriminate brine

These salvaged shells

Now on display

As they were found

The ship that bore them

Still decomposing

Leaving nothing but

Anomalies