There are blues in the beauty
Sullen shades tinting the expectant tips of my pupils
And I feel only what I see
The gloom of certainty in the trees that I grew surrounded by
It heaves on my eyes a layer of eternity I thought I wanted
And I cannot shake it for what I feel is what is crudely studded into the very off-beat throb of my heart.
There are sirens in the homeliness
Alerts only a shade greyer than the clouds above me
And at a hand’s effortless reach, I could touch them, and swirl the shades into ephemeral concoctions to distract my tedious thoughts
And for passing moments, I would be a god of resurrection
Shifting the blues that guard the beauty like immovable puzzle pieces.
There is a bitter aftertaste in the soothing tea I swallowed
Hoarse enough that I bear the feeling, yet my head resists shaking in unease.
I was a galloping falcon feeling the biting breeze at the pores of the very shiny skin that tarnishes.
To be a homecoming sailor is an ordeal of celebratory sickness
Synthetically staining blues which unbeknownst to me in time, vapourise.
When the oxidation becomes my reliant momentary breath, and the bitter turns to my sweet palates for solace,
And the kaleidoscope of blues, my cages of earthly grounding, are soiled with a single shade of brown,
Then my focus is loosened of the cunning grip of the blues in the beauty.