Puck's Night

I understand it fully.

What was once a blur between emotion and logic has become a fog cleared.

The lighthouse has called me to shore

and all I smell is that rotten, salty smell.

That fishy scent, dead and poignant.

The smell I thought I smelt years ago.

​

Power. All that for a fleeting feeling of power.

Made a child of me so that you could become drunk on power.

​

It's unfair.

I feel wasted.

I'm fed up with you.

With the rest.

​

I used to dread your deep brown eyes.

Shame and regret and doubt.

I have no clue how I will feel when I see you next fortnight.

When I set sail again.

​

Will that stink still be there?

​

Yes.

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