I can’t help but remember tsunamis ripping through my head
They scream in little waterfall voices that wet the bed
My windshield wipers are cracking and bruising
But the weatherman says the storm won’t end by my choosing
And I am losing my faith in the horizon’s ripped paper airplanes
Because there’s all this rain but no green inside the petal veins
The sideways sunflowers are dying, planted in a seismic wall
Who can turn to the sun again and who could ever recall?

If I became the sky, you would be the first victim of hail-assassins
Shark fishing; you’ll be the bait and they’ll wink at your flailing fins
Let sunbeam karma spare you so artists can paint calmer clouds
Crumpled canvas windows almost soaked through like crowds
Of evaporating consequencees but the humidity humility is rising
Praying-mantis limbs that have sinned, but none of these are surprising.

Your flower stems will melt first when the flames replace the ice
Little warterfall voices dancing on your grave like a mocking sacrifice
Ram horns lock...the door and swallow the key
Pecked out eyes, why do you care for who you can’t see?
Satin ribbons eating the reincarnated apocolypse girl’s hair
Dutiful buffets, you make it a chore to raise rusted silverwear.

And you’re scribbling, but the pencil has an eraser at both ends
Like twisted ocean deeps as the diver swallows up the bends
And wasting time by chasing down melted-rubber roads
And worrying about how you’ll never crack empty codes
To keep up with all your unshielded pains and troubles
Waterfall voices, it’s too late, they’re muting your speech bubbles.

Why, why does this have to be the only way.