dressed up to look like a clown

whose mind is quite perplex –

at a grinning specter walking in dreams

he can not tear himself away

from.

following, just a footstep away

with breath rather labored

but the ship is speeding past those

violent waves.

not getting crushed up like a bone

in a dogs jaw: breaking sound

marvelous to a pack all

digging up old skeletons

deep inside.

a high tide, a high fever, is there

a difference with ship

snapping away at the winds

quite untamable.

the core tries to make contact

with skin – skin claws back,

afraid of what the inside will

show, a fine linen weaves about.

with smoke heating up the boiling

sea, the volcano spews out red

orange hurt, eager to tell

what reflections show.

they’re not benign, not the stories

a raging tempest tells herself

as she tears apart a ship headed

towards the docks.

where the pack of dogs have

now gone to slumber, filled

with regrets and chaos when the

bones begin to tear at innards.

and then the ship blasts apart,

with howling dogs no longer marveling

about while a clown finds his masks

littered all about.

no one knew who he was, that person

inside. not even the clown recognized

the bones within, the skin taut

with a tempest still wild and chasing.

specters moaning desolately –

they drift like zombies towards light,

of red orange hurt, groaning away

when obsidian forms.

it’s here. it’s now. it’s permanent.

and neither wind nor stone could

remove that taint.