The somber song of cymbals crashing on distant shores, drawn near upon the tongue of effervescent tides. The acid child sleeps out in the cold, nestled in striped cotton, the darkness swallows his heart whole. His mother calls from some remote coast, as he lays abstract, gazing up at the ethereal sky, waiting for the glossy stars to breathe some reassurance. And while toughing out the need to dissemble from the rest of the empty blue world, the child does not move. For inside, he saunters away from the shores, making his way home nimbly. Leaving the ghosts of his cold heart dusted beneath the sunken rocks of the promenade. Empty inside, but never looking back to pore on why.
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