
Stealing Civilization
I can almost smell the arenaceous resistance of the oscillating winds, as our gunmetal fortress plows through the dense fog who like Scylla has crept silently up beside us.
My sea legs assure my footing as the ambient sound of the sea, like that of crackling Kraken rises up from some underwater lake where the ruins of humanity’s indignation lies un-peacefully at rest.
We plow ahead slicing through the last remnants of an overcast day, foreshadowed the night appears, without warning over the star-struck skies between the Straits of Messina — the moon fledging punishes us with the tidal flooding of delirious apparitions.
Scylla — off the chain, howls at the hairs on the back of my neck, wired. She brooks no argument, six headed covenants of imaginary ambitions lay claim to the hydrogen hectares off the coast of my ancient world.
The scythe like waves, arc ceaselessly as they angrily threaten to shame us. They crash with the force of a thousand mowers peening their blades against the steel frame of our hull.
I dare not look back, I dare not harbor my trepidation, for on this night I fear, the gods do not walk besides me, but behind me.
Before me awaits the open sea, a forest of stolen civilizations, between Scylla and Charybdis, the treacherous voyage home — always lies aboard a star.
Beguiled we glide over the shoulders of the restless sea, a phantom that rivals the argent rays of the bathing moon — the sudden rain of stars fall upon the domes of my eyes and the sirens call redeems the night, reducing ones life to a one single iota. To inhabit one more stolen breath, one half of a breath to live again and one half to cease another day.
Copyright © 2021. R Tsambounieri Talarantas.






