My Place In Central Park

Hear these eyes, perceive your providence… steadfast doom! Cliché tri-state thinker of the past, and undergarments worn to arouse. Shells found on stormy shores among lonesome islands. Planes above. The flames of New Hampshire conceive the children of my sexual insight. Pages perplexed and confused by the shrieking songs of a melancholy mother. Alone, walking, and empty strollers. Flaming poets rhyming on the backside of rustic overtones. Snow flakes serenade the Vermont pedigree, mistaken perhaps for a dream hungry and craving the nightmare. The dangerous waves pick pocketing these grains of sand spin around my frail and flimsy future. Flamboyant fossils recover underneath the heat of an incomplete, breathing tide.