Concentrated raindrops on a ledge
It smells like sea
The bloom of drifting parasols
Perhaps it’s bitter
The sweet arc of life
I don’t think I’ve grown
But the room is still getting smaller
Eat me
The label reads
Perhaps I shouldn’t trust the gifts of strangers
Death is like a carriage
It carries you away
There’s nothing left, perhaps it’s theft
To lead poor souls astray
Summer arrives with a
petal breath, peachy almost
to a certain extent
tormenting my thirst
for the ample rain
with its sober buttercup heat
and a scathing gale
It’s rather too familiar
And yet foreign nonetheless:
This spawning of vivid sunshine
differs to my preposterous storms
by far a vile mockery
towards my esteemed agony
and yet
I praise it’s passive fidelity
all the more .