White gleams mulch over the black shore,
swishing deceivingly, scaly sand layered back to
ruffles of roofs where
ink soaks the irregular crevices,
observed by the idea of foreign eyes.
The mischievous horizon winks itself,
disemboweling the sapphire sky
before a deck of outsiders: (( “Who’s that strange man?” ))
(( “Where?” ))
A dotty figure quivers up among commotion.
(( “There” )), he links his steps through wood-knots,
while humming an unknown song. (( “What Melody is that?” ))
(( “Midnight’s made magical. by all the scars
dancing with concealed conscious.” ))
And the wooden steps went hazy in
the moonlight’s angle. when the dream-catcher is out on bail,
undulating his causal lean. He makes a circle with his finger tip
with a whoop sound effect.
And cackles. (( “I don’t get it?” ))
(( “You know, those psyche secrets we sense…n’ collect.” ))
(( “Yeah, but what now?” )) He snubs out his cigarette
past oblivion to loose tobacco and a massacred filter.
( “They say smoking’s metered damage in
a world of chaos.” ))…)… like the sparks dwindling into the frail dunes
that he glares at,
as if to study.
--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.