the high road they called it.
Speaking theory and false
idols they called it.
Beseeched a cast off to the
watery bin marked Wilson.
Ruling side by side on an island.
Heavenly winds cross along
their finger tips. Cool waves
gently brush against their timid
hides. Ooh paradise tasted like
Margarita’s.
Until the waves ran dry. The wind’s
blades cut like a guillotine.
Window showers pass the road
only to find themselves on
an island.
Saint's Muse 