Bleary

There exists a void of eternal abyss
That springs forth from the mouth
Of a pomegranate
To visualize a fish
And a tiger
And a woman, bare-breasted

Dreams of surrealism
Paint my nails
As the sun breezes through
An empty window of a cold
February afternoon

I trusted you would regard our acquaintance
As a lead
Try as they might, to break me into a habit of their kind
Salvage, I do, a great deal
And confine it to the reserves of beats
And words
Silences, I have seen, drive me to incompatible needs

I may regard you as a beacon
In the tolling of faraway, war-torn lands
But I still await the flutter, in a mid-summer nights dream
of an apparition
in dark, stormy nights
and unseen sands.