My messages in bottles
Never find their way back home
Or seem to reach her brainwaves' hands
These caravans of letters roam
The ocean forests made of sand
And roads of words I walk alone

Just notes composed in laundromats
Spin-cycling in my mind
Unfolded from back-pockets drenched
In thoughts that bleed sublime
Colors kept too long entrenched
Inside the whitewashed line

Will once again be painted black
Despite my vain attempt
To express the master peace
On which myself was spent
Illustrating this release
In ink blots of lament