The Widow Maker

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The sea lays, like an ocean on land;

crumbling with the rays of the sun, over sand-

the beach is but a cruel, cold shore;

where the sea of ghosts dwell is but a graveyard’s harbor-

For young maidens go out, onto sands that burn;

where love makes his departure, never to return-

each seashell, is as a grave;

and every sailor at bay;

a thrall, and a slave-

And the sea is as a wretched harlot;

flat as dry land, and covers over as dust-

Where men and men doth die in her lust-

Copyrightcopyright March 25, 2014

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