But back to the seagulls…

A flock of seagulls 

burst from a windpipe

The windpipe was one of many 

but this one had 

seagulls, yet gave no 

sign of wear & tear.

They say the heart is wild 

and carries whispers by the thousands at any given moment.

I need to believe in an amalgam.

An organ pipe likes to be played;

congratulation, you have found the spirit of the thing

without a buckle to tether it is

fleeting as one of those whispers

crushes my balls 

from the granular and immensity of its appeal 

that I fling in all directions 

through spacetime, overtime like astronautical popped corn…

Back to the seagulls 

who cry in want & yearn of fish

& mate & nest

The same way I need someone to write for…

a snare for waves

a frame of color — cast with violet, blue, and buttered flies.

Speciation.

Articulation.

Sinful speculation. 

Stuck between arrhythmia or

rhythmic purgatory,

my voice collides with unresolved requiems.

The need to feel heard and seen 

is more than finding a snowflake spiraling and saying 'what beauty!’

It is survival, it is how you survive.

But back to the seagulls and their zeal...