Sunshine Shells, Spilled Moonbeams

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Picking sunshine shells


among pebbles of pastels


— delicate hues, a ruse —


in a stretch of coast.


Too, chasing ghosts.


He could have been Alice.


He could have been in his his


own Land of Wonder, the heir


to a peace confused


with sprouts of fungus.


Rainbows melted


into molecules feasted


upon like oxygen, woven


with strands of the atmosphere.


The fog shadowed fear.


To the navel of the lake


where storms were baked.


the rowboat he paddled, floated


for a while before he throwed


an anchor foamy waves swallowed.


He embraced the moon spilled


from a bottle's mouth — milk.


Rocked the boat. Throw a rope!


He could have been Alice


in bed, devouring cheese.

Created: Jul 28, 2012

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