This last Sunday's exercises.
Writer can see only preceding line.
I sail upon a shattered sea
Adrift but for a lost sense of glee
Floating nowhere, pushed downstream
Nightmare islands in oceans of dreams
Drown out sorrows amidst our screams
Starve our joy with the silence
My joy could lose some weight
Pare me down to grief of equal measure
Spoon me over easy
Don't over heat
Salt me. Baste me in the sun.
Writer can see all lines.
Nine heads bobbing, thinking
Sun streams in, thoughts rush out.
Nine tongues wag in confusion
Straighten, moist with concentration.
Form fades to color patches, signals dissolve to noise.
Nine bright eyes awash.
Visions of nine planets dance gaily
While Melancholia moves
In nine disappointing ways
Towards the edges of disinterest.
And now there's seven.