Delusions of Grandeur

The storm is wicked.
Half-drenched in underage champagne,
I stare as God’s woody fingers swirl and spin
in a world of majestic half-truths.
Full-blown masts sweep me away, a magic carpet
beneath my ballet shoes.
In exotic foods, the world becomes whole
with every shard of mirror glass that trickles
from the man on the moon.
He whispers me cosmic roses and knows my
hurricane is just a love declaration –
his cracked clock seams sand between toes,
scorching my firebrand skin.
The storm is liberty, and the rain is torrential,
crimson and all unlike blood
in such a finery.

The wind is dead, the world a rock
but, bizarre in surrealism, you whore
to the gods and reawaken everything.
This time around, incendiary – flora and fauna
on the fingertips of piracy.