misfortune’s sea

Carmine, crim­son, colours red,
Across the floor they swell and spread,
Like surg­ing waves they over­take,
Form­ing ruts with­in their wake.
Grains of sand are drawn to sea,
In clumps of one, now two, then three,
Like us, they fall and sep­a­rate,
Pawns upon Misfortune’s plate.

Smoth­ered in his rank cologne,
Cold hands bring forth the dark un­known,
What once were grains with­in the sand,
Left as rocks too weak to stand.
All Mis­for­tune does is take,
Es­tab­lished in the san­guine wake,
In­dulging on one sim­ple thread,
Tied with­in deep seas of red.

—kay­la walk­er

Flom­mist Kay­la Walk­er is just a sim­ple poet who is fas­ci­nat­ed by rhyme, us­ing it as a voice to speak for the girl lost in her own mind. Copy­right © 2016 Kay­la Walk­er. Pic­tured: Flom­mist Com­po­si­tion No.19 (cropped), from FLOMM! THE BAT­TLE For MOD­eRN 1923.

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