It could possibly be magnetic
Something in the caligraphy of my actions
I cannot control
When the wind blows
I follow

If the word had not been abandoned
I would swear this was perfection
My marauder
My undoing

Speckles of tranquility settle
At the bottom of my subconscious
Like sediments in a lake
Slowly it thickens
Slowly I am no longer the fraud

Now I open my eyes into miles of sand
Looking to the sun with eyes closed
An insect sheds its skin so delicately
That he appears a ghost

And if blue were blue
I would already be gone
The twisting kaleidoscope of colour
Confused for one shade
Again the corners turn in
Becoming a cocoon