The Island

Imagination is the tide
We strike the balance
Between whats within
Carve the chaos from our sins
and weave the soft threads
of what once was
We are the condemned ones
hungry for the
of a womb that bleeds
segregated from ink and paper
 Chapter verse
We are the lines.
If you look for me
you will find me
between the gaps of salty tears
within the knots of crows feet
behind the scabs of a Tramps dusty disguise
or a brat that harrangues her mother
I am an Ocean of stories,
and the questions with the answers we
cannot find


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