Stranger in a Familiar Land

Posted by Erik Moshe on Saturday, July 21, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses

“There’s other fish in the sea…”
She realizes as inner doubt penetrates shrill silence
But that encompassing phrase for relationships feels biased
“There’s other scales to be balanced, it’s life interloping with each shingle”
Love-disease lingers but keep your eyes open and keep single
When people assemble…
socialize on the surface like microbial reef builders
She had a history of flooded emotions, was rightly termed indecent
As evolutionary heights perturbed the hypodermic creases,
She’d vent her frustrations to her girlfriends who were hydrothermal cretins
Visualized Oceania visions of underwater chrysanthemum pyramids
The time of Cambrian periods, questioning her own spiritual plateaus
- and what Pangaea is. A continental self who was searching for her worth
To get to the meat of her problems as far as a herbivore’s concern
No doubt, she was down to Earth - coasting the far lanes
Joan of the arcane touring the terraforming globe in bizarre lengths
Men are a den of lagoon critters, so she refused to be that hopeful sacrifice
“Most guys are scum, not the soapy algae type in mixes of molten acid-ice”
In cold waters, the plankton try to stick together through the trials of chimera
Wet cheeks streaked with tear formations, it’s a beautiful time for the dry terra
The walls of the city are monotonous, orb-like, sulfurous
Walls of water that Moses might struggle with
She was vogue, ate a disciplined aquatic diet but couldn’t quite stomach it
A shell of her former self, fossilized projection, a sea cucumber’s width
“Just like when the comet struck, rejection will teach you humbleness”
Some resist, but she accepted her biotic fate with limitless energy
Sifting with lipid abilities, depicting a cystic virginity
Tasted saltwater on her tongue with a hint of toxicity
To find a mate was designed by fate to be difficult
With survival placed on her willingness to play with these imbeciles
We’re all still fish in the sea,
Bipedal descendants in the queerest age of profound guilds…
If she put her ear to the pavement, she’d sprout gills.

In : Rhymed Verses 

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