Sandpaper Blue

My words like fine sandpaper make the grace of your eyes a discomfiture of knowing lesser known things

Walking the fine line between cradled sensuousness and raving insanity

We tend to our flowers better than they do

But had we our wishes, they would be gone of us and no more

Than utter nuisance to the wind, how it shall seem, that nary their children will remember them

And even then, forget, to hold dear the tears in their eyes as they wept sleeping in cavernous burrows of dirt and filth

How some crave the modern way while others yearn for a mote of substance

Heightened to a fine point, the subject strays too far, and I am wondering once again: Who am I?

How came I to be here?

And when may I leave?

Please, let me know, when the ship is due East for its final voyage

So that I may board it, without belonging, without family, without friend or foe

Nameless, lost at sea, and drowning in the nothingness of the blue…

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