i know
the idea of you
is pointless

nevertheless
today
i dream of you
like i tend to do

in that valley
where i left your kiss
hanging in the air

i could feel you waiting
for a change of heart in me

my heart never changed
it still beats with the same
ambiguous beats

i cannot remember
our night time talks
and forget our burned down silence

all the same i try

tingling agony
desperate for your gaze

i cannot shake you off

longing for your absence
to pass

Sapphire waves remember the story
when the sky was painted in royal blue
and made your gaze more of a dream than a memory
while the moon reflected into you

Suddenly you looked at me
and tears fell from your violet eyes
for your heart was not filled with glee,
yet I noticed what your white tears could symbolize

So, into the deep see I dived,
sinking and swimming
while for your happiness I strived,
in the dark water, tumbling and falling

After I found my answer
and you reached with your fingers
inside my picked up silver oyster
I saw you smile as you gathered a handful of pearls !

I see the sky crack open
And try to paint it closed with starlight,

But lo and behold it does not wish
To mend itself tonight,

And as it falls so gracefully,
I watch the sea lap at the city's ticklish toes.

Serene as ever, but still deep with mischief,
The sea plays with the city until it is bright with light

Of laughter and joy
Until it decides if it should sleep this night.

Sonewhere in the distance sits something,
What? Nobody knows,

But it sits there in waiting,
Like a sanguine sentinel, somehow hopeful.

And mark my words,
The cracking sky opens, opals

Pouring from an endless beyond
Just to shake hands with a never ending sea.
It is how the sky reaches out to the sea:

For once, just once,
I wish it would reach for me.

You're older now, soldier.
Your wars aren't the same.

Dust and the blinds they collect,
days that feel red, almost enviable
in their passion.

Shaky hands again, dry mouth
again, sirens singing low in
the black water day after day.

Death should mean something.
Encore for the epitaph!

It isn't real, but it is. It's replaying
in your head. It isn't real, but

it happened.

is an issue,  his head done in, he

don’t do surreal. he does money,

profit, &  a perfectly good hug,

every visit.



then there is the gardener, been

there eighteen years.



very tidy.

no pests.



just me visiting.



sbm.



archaic
bubonic plague.
noun: the pest