Red Money.

by synapselens

We are two Spanish galleons.

Tossed upon the mire of crimson cash and takeaways,

Running lye over the frigid bodies of castaways.

The remains of an arrogant halcyon.

But you cannot unstain the eons and eons,

of card sharks and panhandling strays

kneeling in their suits and ties on tired Sundays

knifing us in the back; letting our blood until dawn.

But our journey was not stifled by the sea.

A patchwork was sewn to fill up my heart.

We weathered an envious twist of waves and algae,

with scars on my arm and an imaginary chart.

But when I look to you now for comfort and ease,

I only see us stranded and falling apart.