Blood sun at my back,

like a suspended king protea bloom,

that illumines hellfire in it’s waning,

saturating the world in silhouette.

The horizon awash in periwinkle,

sends forth white capped waves,

that whisper their destruction,

in a clashing of existence,

with secreted artifacts,

and primordial remnants,

that the tidal pull reclaims,

to keep mankind uncertain,

and helpless to feeling unreal.

E. A. O'Connell. July 31, 2021.