I feel the sand

running through my brown fingertips

draining the talking, burning salt

from my bright blue lungs —

the bruising blue cold water

swishing — cloudy — in my ears

You’re voice sounds

a hundred miles away, with

sun-drenched yellow lines in between

and hundred of cars —

on either side waiting to,

wither (not me and not here)

the honking and slamming

of doors, sounds like — music

to me —

like golden glass shattering,

stabbing carpet

floor not

belonging here but settling

in the cracks in

the tiles,

plausibly impossible to move

like sandy dunes getting

washed away - surrounded

by sea —

bit, by bit but still running

from me, and like

a stream

silver rivers of sand ebbing

and flowing, trop

set for me

eyes glimmering with iridescent confusion

under the freezing glare of the

summer sun and winter moon

which do choose to beam

in a coffin of burning extremes

blinding me in harsh spotlight with

no fateful reprieve and

quick glances of

dreaded confusion to

either direction with

neither in reprehension

Their soft urgent voices pulling

me in both directions,

the do not fear

boundaries or cages, but

trap me, urgent, in theirs,

scrap of an old world — faded

where icy grey, boxy color

not a gradient; and in

my melody lies

into a harmony, not of mine

chained to a silent rhythm

not built for walking

not build for freedom

and wandering

the dark of the night with a

mind full of stars, and

hands tapping, a

faded voice disappearing

whistling a melody

that soars up above

on the light wings of

a weightless dove

gliding (blue) everywhere

and nowhere, in all

directions with

a confident certainty