Red

A weary wanderer gazes
At the scape that marks,
In permanence, the divisions
Of the land, sky, and sea.

The ship tips in sways
While the bow lobs
In varied feats.

Waters swirl and surge,
While the ship jerks
In unsteady tempoed rocks.

He listens to them slop
And swish against the hull.
Placing his right hand
On metals protesting in oscillation,
Turns and tosses
A floatation device.

Gamblers

Where would we be
If we’d never noticed the vaporous rippling surface
Or crossed from this timeline to the other dimension.
If we had not overcome our fear of triple point waters
Or mistimed the opening from the moon’s reflection.

Was the cost
Of the chase
Of no import,
Do these letters
Fail to support
Time as unwasted
For a muse now
Tempered across
Alternating realities.

While the effluvium
Of her solidity escapes
In wells of hopes that lie
In dormant chases
Of the moon’s reflection.

Clovers

Futily I search deserted tundras
For six leafed clover
In Fata Morgana mirages
Morphing, distorting, inverting
Sequentially imagined scenarios.

The harshness of veracity
Shoots flaming arrows of certainty,
Voraciously confirming
Fata Morgana promises
Of travelling distant lands
That were not targeted towards me,
Piercing this soul of its fetidity;
The offensive odor of pomposity;
To have the audacity
To have even an inkling of suspicion
To think that
That tumultuous wielder
Of golden tipped arrows
Would point such artillery
At such unworthy targetry.

The sombre of mendacity
Feebly folds in margins of duality
Of acceptance and repudiations
Where Fata Morgana regions
Supply convecting refracted reasons
Of changes in emotional climates;
Discarded ancient promises dustily
Recovered over realisations of finality.
You were the catalyst for germinating emergence
That were pushed out from underneath;
From soils of freezing and thawing cycles
Where permanence didn’t stand a chance;
Still, even in beguiling barren landscapes
In another flickering optical distortion
I see fields of clovers.

Weakness

I hope I will see less of those disfigured
Reflections of derisible comeuppances made
Undesirable, god owned inflections of disturbances.

Weakness?
You dislike it?

Overcome it.

Seise that crazed rabid ram
And wrangle it
Into the ground
Instead of rampaging
Around trapped entanglement.

Accepting inertia in hushed hysteria
Believing in the wooden tensions
With crackling voices of panic infused
Pathetic whimpers of choices tumbling,
Ascending ionisations of the unknown;
Formulating negative and positive charges.

Tell me again
How you are powerless
To control the outcome.

When I know different.

The distaste
Of weakness.

I can do whatever I’ve decided I can do.

But.

Sketched

How quickly we’d
Jump in front of the gun.
Sometimes.
I paint the worst scene first
Filled with paranoid colours
From scrawlings of sketched contours.

Is it the past that haunts
Or is it the currents
That surge us forward.

What is it
That keeps you rooted
In storms?

If I told you
I feared your ghosts of trauma
That it follows me in the day
And haunts me in my bed
Would you be able to
Just be gentle
For a bit.

Embraced in Dream Beds

I sit
With the light switches
Turned down.
I count
For every 1.5 seconds.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten.
I watch my eyes slowly adjust
As blackness fades
Just a little
From vision
As I listen
To the music
You listened to
Last night
And I feel
I almost feel
Like you are close
Like I could touch.
Like you said once
In moving images
Of us
Embraced
In dream beds.