Under nocturnal sky
an open fire
exonerates
tomorrow.
Here I sit
in supple ceremony,
advertising whims
and opinions.
Followers prostrate
in forms of
something different.
May we all be
as calm
as furious oceans.
Marine life drenched
with the bother
of persisting.
        There is a shadow here.
        I sense it.
        When sunshine
        thaws in
        multifaceted
        eclipses.
We are there too.
Suggestions of ourselves
resist the reticence
common to the dragging.
      There is a message here.
         I am it.
        Typed words on
        an old sheet of
        cardboard paper.
Why do placid days
always
erupt in ambient persuasions?
Shriek as if the
         planet was a
        waste of rhythm.