Drawing 7's


Reaching out from

my comfort zone

into the jam jar

of oblivion,

sweet like marmalade


I find that everything

collapses bone white under

a palm tree.


I rush into the reaches

of the preacher's words,

"cast aside all fears my son,

you will prosper in eternal

bravery", and that philosophy

of self-imposed fright takes

flight in the application.


I run down the beachside,

drawing 7's in the sky, eying

each passerby with such disdain,

that the kite strings snap

like brittle fingers to the

oldies tune my mind plays on

repeat, and the sleeve my

apprehension hinges on is a

timecrushing, red avalanching,

felt tip finger pointing at the

setting sun, drawing 7's

in the sky.