the ivory clouds embellish the fortress
where it lives, mirroring in its beautiful agony
the distress in which the human skin
warps an estranged contact, unafraid to ignore kin,
the mangroves, twisted into rusty harps, hold
a myriad of gulls and open calls,
a mother's cry.
She creeks in this cocoon of roots singed
in broken links
in-between my eyes
sunlight drapes utopias of black oil
the margin is tangled.