At August’s high peak, my dandelions stretch downward
Into the brownish murky bog, growing near the schoolyard.
In the opposite way, I drive my young bones to the beach.
As I stand at the sea, admiring the lonesomeness
Of each wave’s crest, and peak, and crest, bobbing infinitely,
I screech in laughter, each lonesome thing crashing into shore.
Because of the weeping clouds, I sit in my car’s steely armour
Observing the falling drops, lonelier than the funny waves.
Leaving my armour, I go to water’s edge, swimming towards peace.
Eliot Gilbert is a fiction writer working in the soft fantastic and poet working in the surreal-ish. He has been featured in Calliope, The Woven Tale Press, and Short Story and Flash Fiction Society, as well as several other places. He also has the pleasure of serving as senior poetry editor at Existere. You can pop by to say hello at http://www.eliotgilbert.com or on his Twitter, @eliotgilbert.