I wish desperately to feel the coarse of sand, exfoliating my palms as I clench summer’s heat in the early twilight of the ocean’s reflected sun.
I wish to write on the back of this scene to my distant friend,
Somewhere deep in a frantic and self-assumed prosperous city.
I don’t mind the vacancy of a lyrical response,
As long as he understands a nestling sun in the ocean’s sweatered surface to be an image irreplicable in the city’s stained glass.
Deceiving windows with spirited lives of once-upon-lands cannot fool spectators into fits of private happiness,
Although they may act like poetic jesters to attract public spectacles.
Audiences will condone any underlying admonitions for the luxury of oblivion,
Though such admittance is outrageously disgraced.
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