Bilge

by kholinar

We regard the
sinking scow —
clouds obscure
her lucky stars.
Now and ever,
taking turns
they pray,
diving they divine,
the dice urge casting
deep.
Hopeless eyes
scry the skies.
Depths to the east and
debts to the West.
The greater lights fall…
as blackened orbs,
and rest…
pockmarked shields,
adorned with stripes,
on battlefields
of blight.

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