Shop window muse

Glistening watches stare through the shop window
Folded In purposeful rows
Polished
Reflecting artificial light.
A hundred ticking hands
motion a reminder
Of moments that can never be recaptured.
Gone before its here
Here before its there.
A constant flux
Never waits for the wicked
Or best intentions.
Garbled static radio emits from behind the counter
Mirroring A deep seeded feeling
Of
Waves rolling
Misunderstood
In Unarticulated purpose.
Muses in the strangest of places

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Island prose

Monkey nuts dangle dry

out of season.

Bursting swollen seeds

like deflated balloons.

A wandering boy,

with a wandering eye

wonders what the foreign girl is doing

on a island

among hundreds of solitary islands

perched on a tree

alone

with the lapping waves and setting sun.

“Just answers” replies the breeze.

The world is run on good deeds

and a trust

that you can be

boat-less and stranded

in good faith,

in vulnerability;

defenseless and unprepared.

Who would know if I died out here?

Not a soul. Not a soul.

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