The Poetry Marathon

Blood is dry on arrival
Possibly been dead all week
He must repress the stomach
For the corpse started to reek
There had to be a motive
For the killer he world seek
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed

The witnesses he gathered
Were unaware of the crime
The list of suspects was few
As he sorted through the grime
He needed to find the fiend
Possible lives ticked with time
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed

Another victim deceased
More bodies began to drop
The killer was a braggart
Leaving tauntings for the cop
But this pride led to defeat
As he confessed in a shop
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed

The killer was found
Executed now
His killers slept sound
No sweat on their brow
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed

I cast out my line and wait for a nibble
I sit there proudly, having wove a fine line
But the months go by and still no fishes bite
Despite my hard work, despite my great design

I wait and I wait, crafting more lines with time
Some are short and shallow, some are deep and long
I cast them out to grab the fish attention
Some times I tell stories, others I sing song

The fishing seems futile as the years go by
With so many lines and yet no fish at all
I was about to give it up, it’s over
When a line went under; the fish heard my call

Good morning, my master; I am your new servant.
Be honest, how much land did I conquer in life?
Treasure island must be on the distant oceans
Soft moonlight shines as we ride towards Babylon
After hours, master, you must live on for me.

As I struggle towards the surface,
Breath seems to be fading.
Confusion overtakes sanity.
Down? Up? Water raiding
Every cavity, even lungs
Filling up with the sea
Got to get to the surface to breath
Hear the call of banshee
I have to survive this horrid fate
Just to see her again
Knocking at my very door is death
Let’s say a prayer, amen
Must get away from the wreck below
Now nothing guides my way
Oh Moses, won’t you save my spirit?
Please Jesus, don’t betray!
Quit mocking me with distance between
Rest and Davy’s locker
Salvation, survival, sin kills me
The depths roar with laughter
Untimely death, inevitable
Vex my mind and my soul
When I begin to drink up the sea
Xerif, I yield control
You are free to arrest my being
Zaftig me is freeing

Hello, my name is Ian Tash (aka Ian Flowers) and I am happy to be a part of this year’s FuIll Poetry Marathon. I am an unpublished writer and poet, but I am a writer for hire on Fiverr under the name sixdegree and I am a competitive writer in local competitions and in global ones. I look forward to the challenge and creativity involved with this process and I can’t wait to see what I and my fellow poets are creating.