the clamor and the hoarse

sometimes it gets unconvincing
as if the dirt path
solitary from birth to death
doesnt really exist
as if chatter, enough
can explode the fish bowl
teem it with color
or crack it with force
collect all the droplets
that arent tears or rum
and make an ocean
if we look closely
made of pixels
disgorging pearls, all the time
as if time didnt exist
sometimes the skin itches
as it tries to wrap around
the energy of forever
in the accounts of a day
and turn a profit
whatever that means