Ruth A. Cutler



For the Father who got his kicks and left and Mother who sold me like a piece of discarded furniture.


Under crimson skies, two pirated souls on wayward vessels

meant for varied foreign soils.

Their fleeting passion, quickly gone as their nameless faces.

Forgotten like the babe they had thrown to the cold, empty seas.


Away and beneath a darkened moon, newly borne cries falter,

silenced by gails of five.

Bare tender flesh rupturing under crushing squalls

and jagged tides.


Spinning through the sharp hands of time, across the seven seas.

What should have never been, lay scattered upon the lee shores.

Wreckage for spectators and souvenir collectors upon cross bearing sands.

Illegitimate, bloody pieces left for sanitation’s final cleansing.


Found only by one with a soulful heart and compassionate amber eyes.

Pandora’s lustful scatterings, held now by the warm loving arms of care.

Yet, forever solitary, till she lays me to rest.



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