Those who know me least,
but see me, daily...
idling, in dark waters,
might describe me as quiet,
distant, and remote.
An island, unto myself
which waves its palms, prettily,
to strangers,
and sprouts tender blossoms,
under the intemperate eye
of its own, jealous sun.
Its shifting swell,
of hourglass sands
only seem, to glow,
and its obscenely blue waters,
only appear, to shimmer,
the further you draw,
from it.
...Am I naught, but a mirage,
which thirsty tourists,
may deign to sail to,
and from,
in discontented droves?
I keep the secrets, of the land,
harnessed,
under tribal hands.
I offer them nothing,
whatsoever,
and yet, they are voracious
for more, of the same.
They smile, and gasp,
awed, by my hibiscus fields,
and my tropical skies.
But do my fire pits,
not strip the flesh,
from roasted pigs,
turned whole, and lifeless
upon its busy spits?
And does the roaring maw,
of my active volcanoes
not devour its transgressors
beyond ash, and bone?
People might get it...they might not. It's okay if they do, or don't, I don't mind.
