sailors in a whirlpool

if Love, Death, and Robots were a poem

1 min readNov 3, 2022

airborne vagabonds
slew through to you
through mean cracks between bricks

spaces that wear yellow jackets have no time
and time laughs at the pregnant day passing by


hoist your sail and come crash down next to the seabed
away from the laughing sun rays
in the dark of the mother’s penance
washed down with the warm rum
clinking clanking in the captain’s chalice


the stars intimate no map
through the grooves they make in the warden’s eyes
so close to their violent centers


far from giving direction order

while the stench of my bothers
pools up towards their knees
no quarters can harbor my small whirlpools
lest the tongue holds shape for once
with no malice and no shame


the night’s tossing and turning on its bed make the sounds that color a road home
in tumult and a lake’s face on a cold spring morning

in fractal unison, the vagabonds laugh

© Engaisi Peter 2022. All rights reserved.




Fascinated by the familiar yet strange of the everyday.