Pink Clouds

The billows of the tides stalk me no where I go.

Talk about a clasped locket,

No longer secure in false realities,

Which molest the saddening tides with deceiving strokes of time.

They stiffly rise as the cockroaches proceed the current

Into a revering tale.

Presume the deep were to shadow me,

And I greet those insects within a timepiece.

Who is not to say that one should sink rather than swim?

Guaranteed, there is always floating.

But I am no doll existing on an eternal shelf.

Rather, I am a twisting termite

Who shivers at the bottom of the dead sea,

Cloaked in dust.

Blanketed in oblivious memories.

And masked in pink clouds.