winsome shred the blue across this dome,
and in mischief call the lost souls home,
borne of distance longing, soaring high.
Blood of the sea roars in our temples,
inner ears of being where we are,
under this freckled, feckless far.
Wherein the winter eye trembles.
Bright sky tears well up in my eyes,
a spate of clear water, a platted spring,
bleeding minds unfettered o'er the skies,
thus superimposed do dreams take wing.
Soaring through the eagled canyons,
around an erupting cauliflower brain,
raucous run our childhood companions,
who in every dream a minded reign.
Why not sit every day like this?
Under my sky, in my way,
never to rush by, but to stay,
for forever, in this flight of fancy is.
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