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Dove Collection: Sand
I feel the sand
running through my brown fingertips
draining the talking, burning salt
from my bright blue lungs —
the bruising blue cold water
swishing — cloudy — in my ears
You’re voice sounds
a hundred miles away, with
sun-drenched yellow lines in between
and hundred of cars —
on either side waiting to,
wither (not me and not here)
the honking and slamming
of doors, sounds like — music
to me —
like golden glass shattering,
stabbing carpet
floor not
belonging here but settling
in the cracks in
the tiles,
plausibly impossible to move
like sandy dunes getting
washed away - surrounded
by sea —
bit, by bit but still running
from me, and like
a stream
silver rivers of sand ebbing
and flowing, trop
set for me
eyes glimmering with iridescent confusion
under the freezing glare of the
summer sun and winter moon
which do choose to beam
in a coffin of burning extremes
blinding me in harsh spotlight with
no fateful reprieve and
quick glances of
dreaded confusion to
either direction with
neither in reprehension
Their soft urgent voices pulling
me in both directions,
the do not fear
boundaries or cages, but
trap me, urgent, in theirs,
scrap of an old world — faded
where icy grey, boxy color
not a gradient; and in
my melody lies
into a harmony, not of mine
chained to a silent rhythm
not built for walking
not build for freedom
and wandering
the dark of the night with a
mind full of stars, and
hands tapping, a
faded voice disappearing
whistling a melody
that soars up above
on the light wings of
a weightless dove
gliding (blue) everywhere
and nowhere, in all
directions with
a confident certainty
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This is part three of a three part collection of poems.