I’ll see your holstered silence
and raise you one.
Seven hundred and thirty days
when my soul was shunned.
You still don’t know?
It’s not supposed to be all hustle and flow.

Broadsided, not by my fist
nor a bus
nor an illusion of us.

Invincible illustration
lacking proper dictation
dedication.

We drift on in calmer tides.
Wet emerald moss on soggy
tattered
rafty
remains.
Drunken from a year at sea.
Is that an elephant in the billowy white looking down at me?

Illusion or confusion.
Gots to keep it movin’.
I heard about a place in Berlin, where it’s ok to raise children.

You haven't heard?
mums the word.

Save your sympathy.
Humble yourself instead.