By blending the lines between illusion and reality,
I realize the only guarantee
is that manipulation will be a dying art form
as others lost the gift of sight in the eye of the storm.
I stumble along a stretching dirt path so familiar to me
that winds along next to the stinging pounding sea
where my tired mind wanders a step behind
so my heart can be analyzed: knotted and intertwined.
These gold keys that fit the lock of my soul are only mine to mend
although I can forge copies in the fire to hesitantly lend;
I close the floodgates in my mind so I am able to bloom
in exchange for the fresh cut mums in my room.
The smell of the sea is as strong and alluring
as the lilac petals are enduring.
These thoughts circulate in my mind far above the clouds
as I am able to take my final bow.