Just as catastrophe incarnate
I tremble, throbbing and boiling inside,
with flesh so putrid I have to scorn it,
and a fallow vision to redivide:
I'd take water and air over flame, earth;
I'd take blue or grey over the blue tip,
since the gamut is every color worth
blending, not clarity when bright eyes slip:
The red sun reflected itself neatly,
with the moonlight nestled on its right flank,
so I could drink of its oceans sweetly,
but solely lukewarm water filled my tank:
Until the sun got hot and water boiled,
and I learned to see clear why I have toiled.
