The Fisherman’s Wait

On a warm summer’s day, I sit
on thin ice,
scorning feelings of despair.

With a cup of coffee, I anticipate
one drop or two more degrees of heat
will make me disappear.

The view of my domain irritates me
covered in years of stains –
created by childhood lies.

I observe scantily clad women
superficially dressed
hoping for a tourist’s empire.

The fisherman waits
for the cream to be gone
dragging home the rest,

skinning and deboning them,
breaking their once over-confident souls
‘Wait, stop, don’t go’ I shout.

I should have left it unsaid,
time will pass, they will disappear,
in Satan’s bottle with all the others,

I will never scoff, I will linger, day after day
in my empire of ice, welcoming those in
need of refuge.

-L.J. Lenehan-

‘Diseases of the soul are more dangerous and more numerous than diseases of the body.’



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