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…