Look at the great island beneath your feet to hold.
See how the grass sways in lack of tandem’s station,
let it crunch on your footsteps, bare and cold,
As you may trod through this peculiar isolation.
Between the sky and the earth lays the ocean
the smell of salt and water fill the air like a potion,
And the island adapts to it, volcanoes erupt,
Forming a land of saline happiness and corruption.
Spiders spin their webs around the trees and fruit,
They carve their songs into woven silk and pursuit
Hoping to catch the attention to those who don’t care,
So the spiders just sit there and do naught but stare.
In the meantime, the children hold a slumber-party,
Holding rituals with sticks and stones, hoping to start a
Summoning of a ghost or a demon who does not exist
While stickers and glitter-glue cover their tiny wrists.
A fake psychic watches them nearby their silly occult;
Grabbing his crystal ball with greasy hands and consults
His god of trickery and tarot cards in a tent of neon signs,
Blinding the unwilling customers who may come inside.
He wishes for money alone, unlike the Shepard in the farm
Along the shore, wishing his stock little to no utter harm.
He’s claustrophobic and afraid of the world indoors; inside,
So he stays outside, mothers his plants, his flock and his pride.
I watch them all with a great sense of sadness, knowing that
They shall all perish one day, and their abodes shall crash.
Down with them, I too shall fall silent, lonely and alone to rot,
Eventually questioning what is real, and what is not.
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