Under nocturnal sky
an open fire
exonerates
tomorrow.
Here I sit
in supple ceremony,
advertising whims
and opinions.
Followers prostrate
in forms of
something different.
May we all be
as calm
as furious oceans.
Marine life drenched
with the bother
of persisting.
There is a shadow here.
I sense it.
When sunshine
thaws in
multifaceted
eclipses.
We are there too.
Suggestions of ourselves
resist the reticence
common to the dragging.
There is a message here.
I am it.
Typed words on
an old sheet of
cardboard paper.
Why do placid days
always
erupt in ambient persuasions?
Shriek as if the
planet was a
waste of rhythm.