I didn’t question the sun
until it went, it seemed, away.
The sky is tripping over light
as it travels to me from afar.
A man-made thing, a torch, would sing
of all the brightly smiling fossils.
I won’t consort with wet paper
that steals beauty away
with a penchant for the flesh of ugliness.
The works, I sit, of comfort worn
are gladly feeling upstart scorned,
but do.
A rebel cannot rebel
once he becomes the norm,
by nature it will up-sticks
and against itself conform.
With low-cut speach,
don’t reaching for reaching shores,
but breathe easy,
we are safe while we are cold, not warm.
Contrary, I beseech the net to cast itself
as I must mend it,
again as all would gladly send on beaches swarmed
with thoughts of everything but sunshine
the darkness fixes bayonet.
A chaos killed with quiet thrills
and bladed gleams are cleaning nets.
A feast of fish to gorge ourselves
and, in darkness, on the sunshine fret.
So now I sit, seated in a chair
of contemplating born
in the room with fireplace
to keep it from the winter warm.
The one thing I yet still oppose
is sticking in my side and heart
against unending points the door will never, ever, truly close.