This strange war, made casual
dolphins’ soaring
old ashes to life, most speak faith
and picture as grapes.
I fell by a wraith—unstudied—measured by necessity.
Some strange alpha, a
crude union, bred
by tension, made of
debate if
when we call it love.
Inside a pouch, a kangaroo and fields, boxing
for matrimony, so
much voiceless atmosphere.
Art is filled with birds, taupe-brown mistakes, so
cold, forced into perception.
Sickness and desire, to have met teal skies, turquoise
pink, labelling, and pursuing, dying with strife.
Many phantom delusions.
It shouldn’t be reality.
So close we walked away,
we came back,
there
is music resounding,
crocodiles wresting, one reason to feel endearing.
Too recluse, in a huge country, so absolute, too
wicked, to make a connection.
