Rivers Run Clear

Pouring into diplomatic spaces. Soaring through achromatic skies, I reason with the salamander buried in my veins. I wear my pride, towering over unbreakable cannonades. The persistent flame that flickers glows through the fog screen, the subconscious faculty of a dream. Mind flowing when I sleep. The need for self-expression is burgeoning in the heart, some kind of embellished tokonoma, growing strong with each day the fire eating me inside rages on, and I am trying to keep my head above the bells in saltwater.

Rivers run clear with each wrought caprice. I cut scars into my left arm with precise verisimilitude, fraying at the ends. In the prime of life, shipwrecked in the salt chuck of theorems. Leaving date palms in the sun. I remember falling from the branches of a treacherous past in an insular mind, carried away by the pink sea foam of songbirds. I seen the death of an angel and I can't erase the sight, the movie playing over and over in my mind, the apparitions of the night when the moon is hanging from the black sky. It haunts me, the calm truism. Rivers run clear. Wicker boats sailing in the gloomy bay of some orchestra. The satisfaction of seeing my vision take shape leaves me repleted in a curious but gentle way. Making me believe in a thousand possibilities, a thousand seas. When the rivers run clear, my eye is focused.