Earth’s art

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

The song of my dreams is but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s hymn.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

you’ll need a kaleidoscope to view my art

It is elusive even in umbra lighting

But it is enough the way it is

because I was made in Earth’s treasure chest

where no two narratives are the same


You hear my voice

only through the Psithurism of these pages

My name is but an echo

that resonates in your vital heart once at mid day.

Grief is a lonely space

that wreathes me with an all too familiar scent

This realm of solitude

bathes my skin with the milk of despair

listen to my voice

even though it sounds more or less like poisonous venom

perhaps someday you’ll find me

(I imagine someday soon) In the land of angels

If I am rebuked by the ebbing waves,

or singed by the orange orb

You may leave a white rose

next to my non-existent love for the unseen