Troubles, perched upon my bay.
They grind and dance in flimsy colors.
Too daring and fraught not to relax.
These troubles, you see, they are rigid and gaunt.
Deep inside, they knock, knock, knock.
Quietly, tip toe and tell me: Shh.
I cannot seem to contain them.
Why, this simply cannot be.
My destiny must be more heavenly than this.
Please go, I say, do not disturb the children.
Oh no, we must, they say.
Troubling taunts and thoughts and prayers.
My window bays wide open to sea, in florescent lighting and it’s too bright to see.
Descending to slumber, they taunt me just so.
In smog roses with dark colored amber, yet somehow
I can still breathe.
I know, they say, just let us be.
Return to that whistling tree where you found peace.
These troubles, you see, they show no remorse.
Tail tucked and whimsical strays,
The throes are full of gleaming stars.
Intelligible and drought, I lay there in a wretched seam.
Burst open with hope that it could all just be a dream.
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