ride the waves of the reach in an apocalypse summer

battered down drinking machines and roomy sunny old water bottles

pocketed in isolation and visited by the nuance fallen angels by the deep blue sea

stubborn denizens of the ghost town, coconut trees falling and chanting freedom from the fleshy grasp of the new

trapped in the void by the penal colony

a holiday of a refreshing clinical detention and self-celebration loathing the pouring lights against the window silk, forever embracing the dread of its future, burning clouds seeping through the rooftop shreds

in true irony fashion, an island of a man begets his salvation.