When in the conch of my ear
lean memories gallop over me
like the ocean shuffling
on a distant shore
harking back to that primordial dawn
of the senses
lit up
by watercolour glow …
When I suffer splintering
like the bark
of a major trunk
and the resin tears are shed,
the purest tear
that can be wrung from the soul …
For the wind has puffed away
the birds from my hair
never to really return.
Leaves,
old gold foil,
dusted
by gusts.
Wind
consumes embers.
My wounded soul
is drained
of flux.
Cuttlefish bone dry,
on a forlorn shore,
my tongue mutters
liturgical utterances.
My mouth agape
in blasphemous yawn
emits
a weary replica
of worlds
hatching in thousands
out of the egg-cup mind
of the Lord.