masks conceal the real mourning

The sound of the blue, an eternity of complete acquiescence,
I cannot move, nor do I need to, for it is enough to lie on the cliff
And become entrapped in a world of escapism and peace,
Cerulean transience of all my imagined shores,
A bird of the ocean perches before me
And lets out a shriek which transcends me back,
Back to where I write,
And the calm breeze continues to enter my peripheral.
D.

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