Rockport, Massachusetts.
At the end of December.
Reminiscent of a ghost town.
It runs its finger down my spine.
It licks the water.
Seasick, running from one side to the other.
Over and over and over again.
Again and again.
It spits fire on the chains and wires.
Rooting and rotting.
A new form of decay is created.
Aside the crates and tires.
The wires, they burn and rot.
They rot in Rockport, reminiscent of a ghost
town, at the end of December.
- Tara