Marmalade skies making love to a ball of fiery mass

led to part swiftly from his maiden’s *****

fertile with the fawn of the trees.

Buoyant as the winds waltzing along the sea

the sparrows poured forth the blue stretch

familiar in their parade, uncertain in their path.

Clinging to infant evergreens

the morning’s dews slid past the satin beds

and into the dreaming earth,
shut and hidden as pearls.

The fortnight’s show of drizzle

hung limply in the nipping air, here to stay for

a bracing encore, wild violets gathering

tribute upon its gray curtains.

Soldier bees on their march

far, far away from the six-eyed castle

buzzing until the forest falls into song
of the sleepful, the land of talking boars
and maidens with golden braids for days

I stand in the midst of all

dazed as an infant

eyes flutter like fans
in the heat of visions

seen but shrouded

solitary but shared.

Beholding in my finite eyes

the horizons echoed my sunken soliloquies

like an imagined memory coming to life.


I was quite absolute then

that I, before what could be

the tricks of the mind

or the dreams of the heart,

am just a split second in an
everlasting expanse

of space and time.

“I love the rain and how it tells me that even the great skies cry over something, too.”

It's a sick, sick town
Where men have come to rot
As a worm infested fruit
Lying wet and rummaged on the ground

The neighbors with their bent noses
And upturned mouths
Bubbling with the agenda, the filth
Of their smiling counterparts next door
In town fiestas they squalor like
Emperors on roasted pigs, rice cakes
and goat bellies raised and slaughtered
They dine like fine crickets loud
And unconcerned about matters
Which the small town does not speak

Scoundrels of politicians
Fetchig money like leaves from their
Cotton pockets
Oh the election is under way!
Come come there is money this way!
Forget honesty it can only buy
You a rumbling stomach and a hut
Crumbling from debts and frets!

Who cares though
When seventy strides from you
Gunshots sparkle in the midnight skies
All eyes fainted all breaths shallow
And someone's just got wallowed
In a heat of greed and contempt
Poor son!Poor son!
Used to know the wretch
No family?No peso to his name?
Let's move on to our siestas
Justice won't spare us from hell

God has saved a seat for us instead
The church has made its job clear
Seven Sundays and we are but saved!
But the crowd upon
The altar thins like the old priest's head
Gleaming like chalice
In the dimming lights of the Lord
The people look on and yawn
For the gospel has now become
As good as miracle, literally.

The poor remain poor
The sinful prosper
And this sick, sick town
Has its marrows ******
Dry as a liar's throat
And you tell me to love it
Like a sweetheart of brazen days?
Like the grazing stars in the
Blank fields of bluish horizons
I painted with amulets and rockets
with my visions as a child?
And you tell me I was born of a town
About to sweep into nothing along
with the collapse of its people?

Mother those dead people in the books
Who pen tragedy, brew empathy in a whisk of their words
Seem to understand me better than you do
And to think they say mothers
Have intuition
As razor sharp as your mouth
For someone with so much ability
You fail at seeing nearby distances

No I will not become a mother
Like yourself
I refuse to believe a world
That doubts me as I am
I am a woman
And they see me as less than a man
How absurd my fictional mother
Maya Angelou made me think
I was more

Read Sylvia Plath if you could just
Maybe you'll hear the voice of my soul
Which you have rightly marked
By your own answers
No I will keep wearing
Worn out sneakers and dip them
In mud once in a while
Also, I do not want anyone
To tell me my femininity
Is anchored on fair complexion,
Rose red lips that open
Only to say yes
Because it is not mother dear

You see I have learned a lot from pain
To understand that what is good is
people as they are and were
I have learned enough from a curse
That lives within me
(And which you dont seem
to comprehend)
That I believe in myself
No matter how much
Broken bones lie beneath me
I've died so many times mother
But I lived again and again
To be mad, to be absolutely
irrevocably insane
Headfirst, a marked man
But nevertheless alive
Before those who tell me
I am a nonexistence.

The clouds scatter askew
Into the dimness of mere moments to twilight
Water jumped on my skin
Playing run and hide
Sifting pieces of a small town
Into a phantom's mosaic
I was a spectator to the familiar
While mother has sent me
To an errand of a quarter pound of ginger
Those deformed baby toe-like things
Hideous almost supernatural

A middle aged cabby stops
With a knowing look
On to my face that only moves
To answer, not to question
I sat down on the old leather chair
A waft of fish and dried sweat
Dust and a little exhaustion
Regaining his gear, every bit
A weary man and so
The drive went silently
As a secret.
The exhausted cement path
Looked frozen, deserted
As a widow's heart.

There were faces of mixed hues like
Technicolor film in a psychedelic haze
Lined like domino pieces
In the streets of this sick town
Some leaving, some going
To some smaller street perhaps
Off to estrange their lives
From grey shanties, small lumps of
Grains on their shaky family tables.
Like the downpour they are sad
Sadder than the cabby's squeaking wheels
Between the tension of the road
And the misfortune of its master
I say hello like an egg laid by chance
In a nest made for spiders
I do not belong here
But the web ties me head first.

So on a night
As dry as a seed
The fourth child
Leaned in towards the darkness
Barely a summer's past of his sixth year
He bubbles with the hope
Of children so unaware
They mirror a blank sun

As the abyss catches on
With his flaming wonder
He saw a gleaming mirror
Of himself upon the dull walls
Waving like a tide
On the high cliffs
He goes and goes
Unstoppable as a waterfall

The shadow looks back
Black as his eyes
Fluid as the tips of his hair
It resembled a cloak
Inscrutable like fear
Familiar like beauty
Mirroring the infinite glide
He strokes with the brushes of youth

An eye for an eye
A tooth for a tooth
Inflections of the same stock
Light the destroyer and creator of kin
But the child
Smiles to himself, undaunted
His counterpart toothless
Breathless as a rock
Could not.

There is an absence of light
screaming around me
It is the first of February
the night crawling, an obituary
Conspicuous and hung with death.

A blackout
the local electric company
has yet to be friendly
I didn't mind
The air was young and a tease
Through the windows it approached
Like a growing fire
Closing in on my bare ribs
Soothing my sore mind

Out on the receiving territory
Comes the warm excess
Like oranges hilted on wax
It was sad claiming
They wage brighter wars
Than my soul
But I inhaled their spirit
For a quietness lived in their glow

Barks scrape against the summer dread
Unable to shut their stubborness
They connive with the crickets
For a night of overture
I can smell ambivalence
In the starless skies
Will it cry?
Or will it die along as with everything?

I'd embrace the cold with
My equally hostile arms
It treats me with dignity
From outside the cars screech
Like a wailing woman
Stalling the witch's eye
With fragments of yellow and white
Onto the oblivion of the roads
And the loneliness of a night just
Coming to life.

It's weird but across history many great things started with a problem.

The heat opened a casket somehow
Entombed in a white hot vacancy
Rests my summers day melody
Of gentle feet patting crunchy gravel
Along the pink spines of swamp snails
Out there with listless goats inhaling
The moss infected water
And how I am trapped in my protective
Jalousies like a silly little lifeguard
Waiting for a dip in the surface
An action in the preface

The fields are screaming silver mutiny amidst
The drought on their legs
What travesty happened here?
What reverie of the cosmic nature?
They left it bald as an onion
Sifted as cement
I can hear their pleas
To drop them my sweat
Like a mother to her children
All to ease their parched throats

The wind hangs like a scandal
Whip there, calm somewhere
Or a fusion in between
As fickle as my feet could carry me
I feel like a sponge in all
My sublime holes
Waiting for rain to drop its mercy
Submerge me in its ocean of rumination

It is horrible
I am fried like chops
Of hard meat about to skitter and burn
Rare you say?Not possible in this
Omniscient oven.
The birds turn brown in my eyes
Like lumps of soil with feathers for feet
They seem to be getting along
With the unforgiving sky.

Til when will I snap out of this. I havent been reading or writing poetry like I used to. I'm so mad at myself and of everything bec it feels listless and aimless. I love what I used to do and given the chance I'll pay a leg for it if I could. But that passion seems so far away I only ever dream about sleeping or not really giving a **** and the days pass on like fleeting whispers and I hear nothing, I know of nothing. How did anyone live with this preposterous ******* I'd like to understand how because my days of tolerating it are dwindling down into a deep desire of wanting to see something burn and smell the smoke and hope it possesses my ******* senses. i hate this i hate what has become of my sanity of my body of my feet they all betray me like an idiot ******* out of my ******* hinges I am. I am screaming into a vacuum that nobody goes to the ****** lie I just want everything to be okay because I cant stand another year of blind inferno this is not fair this is terrible it's like dying with your eyes wide open forcing you to swallow all your pain and do not complain you ungrateful coward this is the life you will have give or take shut up there is no point. I am mad and sad and everything in between i wanna rip the ******* edges of those weaker than myself but I cant but I wont idk why but it's for that that I am still on my limits

I wonder how I let sadness crash me like the cruel waves
as I sank wrecked, unsearched.

Daylights fading
Locked in my self
The music slowly dies out

Everything is a passing gray
As the dim out my room
Becomes  my loneliness

I'm crawling like a worm
 in this earthly pain
My face is a river bed,
my eyes a running pool
No wonder I am trying to surface
From torrents I cannot fight
As brave as I want
There are daggers in my blood
They slip out once in awhile
Say hello to me like old
friends from war
Leave me with more shields
Instead of fragments

I shut off the light
 and  feel more alive
Than ever in the dark fields
My home, my sanctuary
My strength, my apathy
When will the stars
Descend to the walls
Grounded as rocks
To your endless beauty?
You are so beautiful
But so terrible
I worship you dead rose
Worship you with wonder
And gravity
Dark, dark the light has left
Left left me
But you have not.
Not you.

Everything can drop
Before me in defeated arms
Like mind leaving in mortality
Like hope dissolving eventually
Not you.
You you you
Not not not
Never, most probably.
Never, most fittingly.
So my dear, veiled flame
Catch-22, alter odyssey
What does this say
About you and me?

My head is knots on knots
No cheeky red faced scout
Oaths to untangle
Except perhaps
people crazier than I

Sullen as a brick on the wall
Imposed as a figurine doll
The ant-like people
Look on and leave
As if I was a bad show,
Their awareness too
untamed for
my script.

Not Scarlett O' Hara
With lovers on a row
No, no, no mister
I am an antiheroine
Waiting to happen
The world is my stage
Unlike Hamlet certain that
I am going
to be.
 
My wings have
Fallen flat on the
road like gravel
But I make feathers
From leaves people
Leave behind
And sew them
Like stitches in
My spine.

No.
I am not the person
You read in books
with jargons sprawled
Like fancy words only
money could buy.

I am stuck in the walls
Everyone stares when
They get too stuck
With pain and alcohol
Dreamt like hallucinations
Refused like a cul-de-sac

Do not play me
Like a ragged doll
Of your forgotten child
Or a roadside blossom
plucked in fickleness
For I have become
This and that.
This and that.
Over and over
The pawn and
The king
All at once.

Depression is so terrible. You are so sad you feel like the melancholy will stretch forever. But I have to **** it up and pathetically write this down at 2 in the morning.

It's as if I,
I
Am born with a void
The silence is an invitation
A banquet
Filled with unlit chandeliers
That only I can dance with

Nothing is around except
The grand hall of 'I'
Laid bare like a naked body
Unarmed and yet lethal

Melancholy
Is my infection and sensibility
I rubbled in a cave
When the rest stood on empires

It is a cat and mouse chase
Fooling one that
No one gets eaten
But I,
I will be

It would only take a blink
Before every sadness seeps
In my glass skin
And I am done as a crystal jar

It would only take a fickle sun
Before every wicked order
Rhymeless or not
Claims me with a Judas kiss.

How disbelieving and cruel
That we are embroiled in wars
Yet no one takes charge
No one takes hold of the pain
Not until they've seen blood
Peppering the ground like a vineyard
And canyons like fireworks
In the air
Not until the ghost of Hiroshima
Haunts their backyards
Not until their souls jump out
of their doors
Not until the streets carpet enemy boots
Not until guns lay in tables with the evening coffee
Not until the television casts a shadow of panic
Not until then, even.
Not until gunpowders fuse in with the uninvolved morning dew
Not until everyone talks about it
Not until expensive towers devalue into rubbles
Not until a dreaded call about the dead stabs a mother's ears
Not until a child becomes an urchin on the streets with no memory of his father
Not until bones break, souls crush under the gripping theatrics of war.
Not until the eyes see what the mind does not believe.
Not until nightmares take shape in stories
And maybe not even then.

Since when have words abandoned me?
Since when have they mixed up with atrophy not symphony?
I see myself fixed on a page that bears no more meaning to me

These are hieroglyphics not my life in symbols
These are objects not reanimations
These are dots not wholes
I am an eyeless Beethoven
Instead I long for words in my memory

Stacks of blank paper flying around the block
They are dead , long gone, hell bent
No eulogies my old friends
I am simply apologetic
For you ascended me to galaxies
But in a vacuum I can't seem to think of you

I am thankless, the idiot
My mind is a boiling cauldron
With a Salem spell, I must be bewitched
I do not recognize the person
reading the stories like they are rocks
I feel no longer, I dream no longer

The voices in the pages were once
 bursts of 'I'
Wandering muse, exalted beings
Not the cacophonies of devils
in my head
Not the powerlessness of a victim.

You who crossed over
the next decade like a stranger
on slowly familiar lands

No you are not mine to begin with
I merely cut open
Like a surgeon
Only I wasn't saved.

They'll say you tried to ****
me then
What a story
What a cry

The swan song
Plays itself repeatedly
like a haunted rhyme
I am not a listener
I am the orchestrator.

Although I fail to
build from scratch
without reducing
myself to you
or anything at all

Fragility is my downfall
And you know very well
how to shatter.

The angels must have smiled
When your little fingers fluttered
Open like delighted sunflower petals
Upon your mother's tears and
Your father's joy in the curve of
His mouth. They must have.
For I surely would have.

You are the umbrella to rain
You are the soft wind in a summer day
You are the relief to my pain
You are the blanket to the cold
You are the hand to hold when
everything slips
You are the book that stays open
for those who would want to dream more.

Fate is beyond us but friendship
is truly magical right?
I'd let the threads of time weave
some more, some more.
Until the day it fulfills a beautiful story
of friendship fated, friendship kept.

The world shall fall as they fall
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends

Bring in the seraphim
Tear the pure clouds, reveal the gods above
If doubt is a stronger virtue
Then I am its paragon

Women fall at lofty feet in a harem
Gorging on peasants' spines 'till faces turn mauve
Fear is the new moral breakthrough
A scale higher than the utmost echelon

The world shall destroy as they destroy
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

The snake bite no longer stings
Calloused as a tyrant's compassion
The purest hands do grow relentless weeds
As they laze on the filthiest plots

Kings and hearts mount to slings
Foreboding most malleable deception
Blood spills bright on their letterheads
As truth gets set by red-handed bureaucrats

The world shall burn as they burn
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

Marksmen are wealthier than diplomats
Golden bullets to the golden rule
The trend is to laugh at our silence
The principle is to break lives not dictates

There lies no purgatory for these aristocrats
On to the vile ember cesspool
Until then, they fawn in worldly omnipotence
And not one revolts, not even conscience

The world shall end as they end
In their sceptre,everything follows
And so it goes on.

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is a self-imposed revelation
The season of loss.

I walk along the fiery living
Cold as the blizzard I go
Staring up the horizons
The big questions reach mute

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is the call to my slumber
The season has changed.

I feel like a decaying leaf
Anxious for the autumn
To sway me to the tangerine littered ground
Leting solemn winter blanket my smallness

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is loneliness bearing my name
The season of gray.

The December breeze is my friend
Fluting me to nature's lips
Like a chord struck out of the blue
A disarray, a tragedy

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is where I've come to disappear
The sunless season.

There is a crack
anywhere,
everywhere
calling you out
to fix it.

You want to be a child again
to jump above rainbow puddles
and stuff your mouth with pies

You want so much
to retrace your steps
back when it was as small
as the hope you have now

You want to be a child again
not because you'd rather be oblivious
not because you'd rather break legs than
your mind
not because of anything
except just be who you are
all you are
back before the world started
changing you

The wind leafs through my skin
Like a bibliophile  on his tenth book
My body fixes—destroys, fixes—destroys
Itself every running second
I am alive

I am alive through the universe whispering
As time passes through my
Membrane like a ghost—unseen.

And with all things eternal and inscrutable,
Darkness has two faces.
There is the sheer silence that resonates with my being
There is the call to become one with it.

I had once seen the horror along its abyss
It had my face on it.
Funny, because I saw my own eyes
Grave, despicable saucers.

But I was as still as the deepest rivers
As calm as the precedence of a terrible storm
Such that I thought I was only a moment's away
For darkness to wholly cave me in.

Where do I feel most alive?
Is it in the arms of love?
In the swift, sad rain?
The first drop of coffee?
Or the dance of swans in the
clearest ponds?

I dont know what pushes me up
With the late morning sun
I dont know what tells me to
Swing along my pain
Like wine in a flask
I just do.

I come passing time with whatever.
I come enduring whenever.
I hang on a thin line
Of 'what ifs' and 'I guess(es)'
Holding my head on days
when I just dont know

I really don't
But I'll live to find out.

The conceited cackle of green-eyes
murmur deep with their stabs
Laughing is no longer a melody
It has become a selling point
of cries and severed human ties
I'd see flamboyance in an old man with    
cracked maroon lips,purple-yellow
shades of shame in his shut lids
Too shut perhaps from the sneers that keep them down.

The all too used ****** frills hampered droopily atop the bones that kissed
icebergs of words from those who
make him not matter.
One more avalanche
and the prop heeled identity
from which he stands will bring him
down along with the world who refused.

And yet I see his ghost in my periphery
As I watched the parodied tragedies plastered with the loneliest
Faces on them. Bam!Boom! They
rot in dumps, in alleys, in late night lonely strolls revelled with crimson crimes on their arms
And unsaid dying messages about culprits Found but never tried.

And those images they
keep coming back, like prodigal sons asking for
second chances,asking for the
slight nick of eye, a slant of faith
a bread of compassion
For the ****** that they are.
But the forgiver is society and has it forgiven?
And has it thought that it
is not afterall the forgiver?
But the retriever
Of all things lost
The start for
all things to be accepted?

When artists suffer, they do not become more creative. They become at their very core, human. Suffering is a painfully human experience we like to disregard as the sole bane of our existence. When we try to avoid it instead of empathizing the cause of our pains, we become less human. We are running away from ourselves. A great artist must essentially be stripped of all that prevents him from his vulnerability, his weaknesses and his humanity. Embrace all that he is. That, I think, is ever the only way to create good art. Because art that defeats time is art that happened and most importantly art that fought to live in each one of us.

They say live
live alone
straitlaced as an
arrow meant
for that
one gruelling
dot

Live for the
ambition
of the skies
and never the
gravity of
the ground.

I say
fall and rise
fire and air
swept in
torrents
up there
swinging
for burn or tide
downs.

I say create
and destroy
live still
and die all ways
change
and change
until time stops
its
crackle
and bustle

Every waking
day
Is both
a funeral and
a birth right

I say create
as we all
write our stories
amidst the
downpour of
life
and the ruins
in our heads.

People are so eager to change me
into someone they cannot be.

How am I supposed to understand
the demons that trail your shadow
when I can't even quiet mine?

'How much do you make?' rather than 'What do you love to do?'

What to do with a mind that is in a million different places at once?

"You sound off."
"Maybe I am or you heard me wrong."

The world is too uncertain for us to be sure of anything. Personally I don't think there is an absolute truth. There I said it. Take me away Nietzsche, I'm with you on this one. We are all so different, all so set apart in our unique, frail and wicked mortality. To have one single frame of existence is debilitating. If this difference is so telling of our humanity then why the hell do we have truth? To what purpose? To contain and unite us despite our individuality? Suppose the truth is given this way: A newborn and a goat are expected to survive with just a small patch of grass. Which of the two gets more chance of survival and existential fulfillment? How can that be when those two are apples and oranges? Their circumstances are so opposite. How is life supposed to be fair to the newborn? I am not saying that life is fair because hell it is far from it. But do we accept that unfair principle or make our lives a little better?  Will his happiness be on that grass as well? Of course not. So he looks for new ways to be happy. He has his own truth.

To this end, I have questioned everything from my faith, to myself, to people, to science even. Life grows along with time and so are our realities. This is why these past few months I've been contradicting myself to the point of thinking I've gone mad. But the fact is I've grown from these experiences of letting my two polar opposites meet. It is honestly scary when these inner voices start jabbing at you like pointed needles.I am a walking contradiction and my mind is a maze of paradoxes and questions with no answers. Eventually, I got used to this mentally exhausting activity. When something entirely different from what I believe be it an opinion, an idea, or a controversy) speaks up in my face I've learned to accept them not as the truth but as possibilities that could very well be right or wrong. I will never be always right.

People are so used to the concept of certainty that we have altogether ignored the existence of possibility. Or the gray area to which simply no one end exists. I realized that we are all predisposed to find answers, to hang on to some sort of explanation to a world so phenomenally ungraspable. It is to the detriment of our open mindedness enough for us to fabricate truths which may very well be coverups for the all too universal fear of the unknown. We are afraid of floating in the ambiguous nature of our lives that we'd rather correct this with assumptions.

I've never fit in,
I never belonged anywhere
except to myself.

When you spread
out to the world,
scatter scamper
'till you get gone
with the shimmer

I have killed myself
thus far with only caffeine
in my string of nerves.

Anxiety looks on at my
hinges loose with each patter
of its dark grooves in my lips
I feel as tensed as
I already am.

My mind suddenly
pitching thoughts of
five or more different
ways I'll go gone as I pursue
the silent knives
in the kitchen or play along
the open danger of the fields.

I am dizzied up in heaps
of misty scenes under
each blink like the milky way
taking home in the blankets
of my lids.

What has spun dimless
like bright-eyed goblins
in the tightening of my ribs
creeps upward and downward
both of us lost in the tremor
of coffee,coffee and maybe
even some cream.

One cup, one cup
of all that is grave, unsolicited
of all things frail
stirred in a cauldron of my
own fairy god witch,
paranoia that *****.

But as I concur needful of
the eartheness, the subjectivity
I am hopeful, I am vital
I am called to hear life
beyond my worry
of dying as the world watches
on with coffee in their hands,
perhaps brewed
perhaps ****.

Juxtaposed between fear
and hope sits coffee for
some ******* chair
of a reason.I have hung on
to it like poison and antidote
mixed like hot and cold tea,
like Hades and Persephone.

I have wished for it
to stay with the fallout
of scuttling equilibrium.

Because it tastes so wrong
but it makes me right,
somehow,  somewhere
I can't quite place.

The very worst of demons are the ones that can't be destroyed because they are a part of you

I'll stop dreaming before they bludgeon me maudlin
Then run. Run off the mill, playing on a paramount race
The light fumes at the tail of a muffled crawlspace
My calloused heels wait, flaring the barest crimson

The wheel makes the world go round, oh quiet defeat
Fed quite fat with golden grease in gun blood
No sullen faced ant ever bites back to chew the cud
On this highway to hell, ****** in an infinity eight

They'll can me like a fish, consumed to be eaten at last
Those who roar with an industry on their mechanical spines
Smoke the steam from black lungs dying as the lifelines
Don't ask anymore, their hands are wide, lips pressed

I know it's hard to say yes
to the fists and clamps
of pain
to reconcile with the
fact that like the thread
you must go through
the small sliver of
needle relief
simply because
you still are not
the person you are

And you'll hit and miss
so many times
in innumerable ways
until that small,bright
area becomes your
own.

I really hate this. I hate it when I am feeling nauseous because of so much anxiety and no one takes me seriously. 'You just ate too much' or 'You're just thinking about it' nobody ever listens and tries to probe instead making their own assumptions. I want to get away from here. Somewhere very far where no one knows me, not even one person. I want to live alone with my disease and heal myself because I can feel it coming back again but the understanding I need is never really enough. There are times when there is so much rage and confusion from inside me and idk where it comes from. It is very dangerous because I just find myself becoming violent and wanting to hurt someone. I feel sick of this but I am the only one who could accept this. If people disowned me, I'd probably thank them because truth be told I don't want to see people right now. I really don't.

I stopped being scared of the lights turned off,
the night underneath my bed
when I understood that there is a bigger dark within me.

There is a place I call Soldier Way  
Sacked at the hem of one ruddy bay  
The open casket of a living ash town

Along the non cerulean periphery  
Waves in battalions besieged in the shores' retreat  
Flitting ceremoniously to a soup of heat  

The white sea calls in a scepter  
Of fleeting air lilies in salt-simmered clouds
Subsumed in daydreams of wet palm castaways

Fiery, elusive pearls praised at my feet  
Then went on to their deaths, fluxing flummoxed  
As flushed touch-me-nots upon human graze 

There, twenty eight steps apart—children cheered  
Flamboyant flowers in a backdrop of a resigned hue  
I smiled against the vigilance of momentary isolation  

In great imaginations, the sea does speak  
To the boulders by the homely sand  
My spring back on their furnaces