In the midst of nowhere
Surrounded by mist
I open my eyes
But all I see is a bunch
Of gates of grey
Gates of the loneliest color
In the midst of mist
I write postcards
From a plane crash
Seeking help
With no weapons
So I hopelessly sit
Casually stand by the shore
By the doorsteps of a quill
I write crosswords of whims and words
Among the mist
Jabbing junctures among reflection of torches
On the cobweb
The misc upon chapters of life
I write the smoke on my breath
Among the long lost wreath
I write the silent tears
I write the screaming bruises
With shades of who I am
Blended with shades of the loneliest color
I write life out of my demons
Some intertwined
Some discarded
Attacking me
With weapons formed against me
Against my weapons
I write
To rewrite as an escape
To a painting
Of a linen island
On a note book
By the name of birdland
I write what the poet has spoken
What has been written from the heart
What has been scribbled in the void
Like a rubik's cube
I write the crunches out of the honeysuckle
The crystals out of a quartz
Trickling
Swooning
Through wings of me
Through the diary of a resurrecting heart
Waiting on its evergreen
Waiting on its gardener
I write poetry
Through sights of melodies
Through somewhere out of nowhere
Through something out nothing
Inside out
My third eye
I write to rewrite
The shades of the third eye poet
The shades of who I am
