I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.
I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.
It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.
I have spot to cry to myself,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
I stare at this spot of mine.