The billows of the tides stalk me no where I go.
Talk about a clasped locket,
No longer secure in pink clouds,
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 time piece.
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.