Why is it that my poems are never the masterpieces I envision them to be? I
have an idea in my mind, but it's never conveyed right in my work. This
particular poem started with the line about octopus tentacles.
****

Blue lips
Dry
Chafed
The breath stilled
Upon them

Black hair
slowly drying.
Becoming ebony green
octopus tendrils
framing a pale face
once luscious indigo.
Now slate blue

Slender fingers
Periwinkle anemones
delicately resting
on cobalt scales
and emerald fins

Sapphire tail
curled gently
in a silent gesture of pain
Serpent twist
Glistening with liquid rubies
Drenching an azure fan
splayed across the sand

Turquoise eyes
Staring blankly
Once full of sea foam, turmoil,
life.
Now deathly still
glazed over with pearl clouds
Never to see again

Death of a mermaid.