Numb fingertips rub sand to feel sensations within.
The seagull’s corpse—swan song—is a creation within.

Yesterday’s eyes were blinded by ocean spray, eyelids.
Behind them, a vomit of stars starts mutation within.

Your broken wings are pencil scribbled on yellow paper.
Guilt folds twice: the scratching, then an observation within.

To capture so much yet so little is but a failure to adapt.
Tear feathered skin away to find only steel; a revelation within.

Frizzes of pissing light pierce through now naked eye holes.
The brain is still water, a tidal basin within.

I, the romanticist, peer into this yawning reservoir.
How tonic to see one’s own condition within.