I am just leftover shards
   Glimmering in the sand
       Carefree and camouflaged
             Where my eyes dry from salty seas

I am just salvage
   Resting upon my laurels
       On the shores
            Where sweet and bitter collide

I watch the world through this filtered glass
The only place where I see things clearly
The only place where everything askew
Is finally set straight again

I watch the world from this lonely lighthouse
Seems the well-wishers have all fallen in
But the well is as dry as their lips
Victims of another summer's daydream

I watch the world from this grey cloud
The only place I hear the world's heartbeat
The only place where I can escape the storm
The only place that I belong

"Don't fret," he says,
As feet singe along the highway
As callouses form
And perdition looms ever closer

"We do not count missteps here," he says,
As our eyelids flutter
As colors bleed
And the horizon becomes our last best hope

"Perchance one day I tame this gravity," he says,
"I may yet label these perils as the cruces of my life,"
As mirages dance
And tomorrow's spies step out of shadow

"Ensure, my child, you settle your debts," he says,
As the fog dissipates
As pockets jingle
And the road eschews its weary travelers

So I furl my brow, again
And curtly interrupt the beating within my chest
I thrash right through these fragile memories
That serve as hostesses to unwelcome guests

I remain anchored
And tethered to the obsolete

She sails across my empty sea
On currents capable of avarice and beyond
I fester within spirits of my own design
That in my youth, were once brilliantly spawned

With blissful candor
I weather her bitter deceit

an intricate mélange behind walnut eyes
you somehow smirk with no movement of lips
sanguine, as a diamond kaleidoscope
dreams wavering along calloused fingertips

it is much like you to tear asunder
all the fractions that compose the man you see
sanguine, as the day you were born
threading your way beyond the mystery

barefoot, your steps still echo within
this cavernous place I once claimed as mine
sanguine, as the island I have become
you are my disarray, by bittersweet design

The man sits stationary in his favorite chair
While children are adrift in their dainty dreams
Fire spits, crackles, and warms the room
One that is far colder than it seems
Much like shimmering snowflakes fluttering down
Memories fall from his clouded mind
Santa should be half past San Francisco by now
Leaving crumbs and subtle grace behind
The man calls himself an imperfectionist
Because flaws are the greatest gift of all
But soon, carols will fade back into their music box
Only regret will deck these halls
Under a Christmas tree as green as his envy
Presents sit wrapped as tightly as his lips
Reindeer could be sailing across winter skies
But he's obscured by his mind's eclipse
There's no more bliss in the land of wonder
There's no more repeating of sounding joy
The man fades into uneasy Christmas slumber
So ends yet another year, as a misfit toy