On the Coral Isle, I found some time for poetry, and though I am not feeling particularly poetic at the moment, I can look back on my glory days and recall the genius that was Sanna Gabriel. The first poem I wrote for the Rebel Shang because she wanted a poem. The second one we wrote together, with the final line being hers, and the one titled Wayward I wrote without outside interference. Now read my iambic pentameter and weep.
The lovely lady waits for sleep,
Half in slumber,
listens to the seething surf outside,
filled with wonder
that a night, so still and starry bright,
exists at all and she is here to hear it.
I want to be free,
You can’t make me dress!
I won’t wear that sweater
Or that shirt that you’ve pressed.
No clothes for me!
I refuse to comply
to your itchy instructions
and your civilized Lie.
I wish to be me,
as nude as can be.
I strip, I tear!
I’m all-over bare!
Now there are only clothes
“I tell you they cry out in anguish, souls
a-flame, afflicted by my tortuous sin
of pretense. O my pride has brought me low!
I flew false flag, professed a faith not mine,
and donned the sandals of a liar’s gospel.
My feet have walked a weary path and paid
the price of such ill-fitting garb. Now I
repent after the sin has claimed its tax.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re being dramatic.
They’re just blisters.”