The Long Run

He lived on the sea
hovering on salt
Sick of centuries of skyscrapers and asphalt
Cast himself away to the periwinkle dream - sunscape meets moonscape in one seamless sky

One day goes by.
Ground shakes and spreads to accommodate a single adventurous appetite to be fed
Not quite the end, but not yet unspoken for:
for open doors allow sown seeds to traverse past
stone walls unbroken before.
Broken ground that cannot be repaired
Just a solemn sailor eternally prepared;
dared race past the world toward disaster.

He lives on the sea
With gold and glory within his hull, he feeds until full
Lays waste to restless waters ahead
Through twilight and sediment -
boundless voyage becomes daily regiment.
Much to his chafed hands and to his detriment.
Sea to shoal and shoal to shore and shore to sand.
The most natural concrete he could imagine,
plastered inside his memory as his fingers tenderly caress
the painting.
Empty, eager, and waiting.

Drifting on blisters
He silently insists on
faint whispers - distant,
embedded in the night.

Papa Pariah

The many offenses he burned
Lay dead on his eardrums but learned
The regular rhythms in shame.
Pariahs here, only to blame.
He opened one eye to predict his demise
With tridents, he swallowed his callous disguise
To give with one eye what he gave to the world -

To open their eyes to the weight of the world
A whisper of calm chilled him to the bone
The world had decided:
First lust, and then love
Preceded many things he described as “alone”
And as he stood on the watery steps
Leading up to his silvery throne
His heels were drenched in the sweat
Of everyone he had ever known
It kept his appetite wet
For pebbles turned to stone
And life was no longer a game of “have not”
But a tale of how much his castle had grown
He smiled and thought.


In an empire on a river;
thatched-roof villas and blankets.
Monsoon season.

Down the throat of the world,
gargled with normalcy, and
spit into the mind of newborn kindling.
She watched an idea unfurl,
struggling with dormancy,
caught in her tongue and her mouth and her eyes and her teeth
shone a brilliant blue.
One little wild thing: caught like wildfire into a wild night.
She grew within the pyre; lighting up the sky,
igniting like a single star, bursting with the notion
that the motion from a summer storm
can bloom tiny waves across a grassy vista
someplace nicer.


I was greeted by technicolor.

Huge hues of Gloria grey and blessed blue
painted by peripherally placed pot lights and delicate dew.
Crimson, the image of mouth agape
as I gazed upon acrylic paws and foreign, frameless shapes:
shapes depicting violet violence,
forms reformed in saffron silence.
Grotesque grown from dark defiance
Dismal drained in wait.
So we wait.

I saw a boy upon the door
His face of gold and white alone
Yet, he had dreamt of this before:
broke both backs but still in stone.
He was caught, mid-cough,
neck arched, watch off.
Deep breath by utter surprise.
Deep, viscous blessed blue skies.
Dust along his caustic coattails
crept, coalesced with coats of crayon,
flailing free from fine, fixed canvas:
tempered texture beneath the dawn.
A tear from one royal pupil,
steeped in unknown error,
glistened in Gloria grey gradient upon the ground.

I sat in the damp
until I was told to leave.
My wandering eye.


EXCALIBUR [EXPLORED] (by ~~~johnny~~~)

Colorful Lake | by David