Adrift
Cold, cold
One million years old
under the misted gray sky
I live in deep focus
with no pan and scan
to avoid the locus.
A script flies from clammy hands
to the street made of hard black sands.
I skid, flap and tear.
With rain drops, sweet phrases smear.
My chapters flutter in
a crisp, crimson drip of ink.
I disappear into the black water.
I tangle myself in the wet green hair
dangling from these trees.
I die of a natural disease.
Bloody soles morn for the cherry trees;
the withered, brown incrusted leaves.
They walk on
crunch, crunch
my bones to lunch
Cold, cold at
just a million years old;
left adrift without knowing why.
