For the "High Tide On The Pacific"
Is it wrong? It is like
Hera falling into autumn
interrupting Apollo on the verge
of his vernal equinox.
In collusion, they find
inspired solace and unabashed joy
in the Garden of Words
while the stars are reflected
in the moon-lit shores of the
Lakes of the Muse.
Is this right? Is this Love?
A flock of harpies answer
with droppings of venom from their perches.
Their foul, ancient breath feels like
an unexpected meteor, burning
across a parched white salt flat.
For the first time, I'm afraid of fire
and retreat under
an abandoned graveyard.
I'm ashamed of my cowardice
and spend days weeping in my earthen bed.
Until one day
I feel a presence, strong and familiar,
hear a voice, knowing and certain.
I pause, still hurting.
Then, breathing deep,
I find my way back.
Don't ask me what it means because honestly, I'm not really sure. Maybe there's someone out there who can decipher gibberish.