Is God but a vain projection to cover up

your fear of Nothingness still?

It seems a bit deep, while I sip my cup

and giddy light flees over the fell…


a lone star comes out, or a satellite,

then another appears near its side,

as Night arrives with the inks of Night

and the moon wears her pioneering ear-ring wide…


the transience of all we love is shown

by the fleeting of the light of day.

It wasn’t until my story was known

that I realised I was not to say.


A driftwood artist, my mother is out

tending to the town in the business of Care,

and soon she’ll return, always devout,

and park the last functioning car.


It is rude to stare but still I am here,

and the poets life can be quite dull,

while out to sea, the golden sphere

of the sunset is a plush, dying skull.


Oceans smile with liquid eyes

and fill themselves with rain;

it would be ample to have said that, I surmise,

as the stars start to shine once again.


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