Prospects: A poem 

From the violet sky, gulls gather around my ankles 

hungry, squawking, like my thoughts in tangles 

The sea like a smog-veiled bride chants her despair 

sobbing on the shore’s shoulder, her groom’s snubbing glare 

A shell lies curled and precarious in a child’s hand 

She crushes it nonchalantly and flings it into the sand 

Innocence wakes up to more accidents in adulthood 

We seldom chance to look back to the place we once stood 

Crabholes pockmark the sands where it is somewhat dry 

Like the soul whose steely callousness never did once cry 

I preach to myself vocally, but my own demons are my pigsty 

And wonder how the rest of the world never stopped to ask why 

Furtive souls play out their unkempt, amoral ironies in the dark 

Even invaluable art has a price that pecuniary dealers mark 

We have too much appetite for sugar, but no taste for honey 

Can I speak for myself, and step aside at the prospect of money?