On your feet light as a basket of feathers, everyone wants to leave, and no one leaves. Cremated skies and a Southern sunrise hit by lightning, wicked and wild traumatic eyes. Purple explosions and strawberry surprise, a small hand waving and pointing at an island dotted with rocks and caramel-colored debris. Orange Sunkist soda cans, the branches are bleached gray and speckled with bitter salt cubes, ugly brown leaves, and a nest of black birds with black eyes and black tongues as the black waves whip the shoreline that only cruelty moves.
The breeze is pristine, and the lake is green and blue, secluded and quiet, an unblemished painting in every hue. Murder fixes murder, rape, and the sodomy of nations by invading hordes, the illiterate echo chambers, and urban decay. Lonely people on a lonely planet, today, this day, every day. Hearts full of hurt, bringing disease and famine, and among the light you will see the unquestionable beauty of cedar trees wet with rain, no bra, no shirt, and white shoes in red clay.
With every step you take, the expanding tide pools stand silent like spills of blood, and you use your eyes to look around, look at your feet, and look at the footprints of giants that once walked in the damp sand as they fill with water, making your lakes.