My soul is the over-washed tie dye
slowly unwinding through its tired
It is the wick
waiting in the mauve wax, of my first
Burning most nights to the sounds of
Held up by shelves,
overfilled with random albums and old
books, forgotten about.
Hopelessly relying on the rim of my
reassuring my limited sight of the
iridescent sky at night.
Watercolor painted with its dim clouds
and hidden stars.
Designed to be viewed vaguely by the
as if its visions I cannot grasp for my