The world is changing-
no more deals to be found.
I rely on meteorological lies,
and that happiness
is unsustainable. Predestined
by few, otherwise like
trying to find the perfect
bra fit. Generally unrealistic.

But-
I do see mercury
surfaced waters and
rumpled cloud canyons
as my status quo.
I define bliss as subjective,
where wordthought
is unnecessarily vocal.

I live inside the confines
of my mind following the
freshwater yellow fin
toward imaginary stick coral-
where catfish and perch
play without animosity
near algal rocks inviting
them into a cave of tiara
water bejeweled by moon.

Sara Fielder © June 2018