he was a gentleman of rank
it mattered little, he had 2 hours and 40 minutes to die
his daughter was a angel
she wore a Talisman to protect her heart
her soul rested in another place of blinding moonlight
she lay warm with her mother in life a frigid statue carved from wax in death
her grave invisible
a totem
he never saw her Talisman again
heroic propellors of massive bronze carved out their last aliqout of freezing ocean twirling then still as the night above conferred no mercy
all fractions of the colours of the moonless night grew oblique the vessel spiralling in a lost vortex then fractured in two thirds and one third, like a decapitation
in the sea of sand between fore and aft were scattered momento mori
a trinket a bracelet a failed fire place in escrow and two dainty pink ballet shoes en pointe for a child and the Talisman itself all curated without oxygen applause nor rays of light to preserve them
her mother unaccounted for
the insurances of the Dark Star Line vivid as if they were inked yesterday
Flynnpoetry 