Is Ocean

There’s a room in a village that captures heat in a spot,

Where a red rug rucks against a dusty guitar,

And petals swelter smooth like cheeks, bathing in a beaker,

Because a bowl is far too wide, and the stems won’t stretch into a vase.

In the humid, a hand bears a delicate seed,

Entered from a loose latch—coaxed by spores,

The guitar strings caution the hand to concede,

But its fingers twist the window handle down like a door’s.

Emerging from the sauna, spun a dandelion fairy,

Who’s time twiddled by consistent puffs made to a bluster,

He drove the gust to a beach, by a piece of dislodged sedimentary,

And landed on a pebble so sleek it made the fairy flustered.

He stole a step towards the stone, tiptoed on the porous of its eyes,

Caressed its swirls of strawberry yoghurt, and marmalade on toast,

He placed a seed on its shoulder, another on its side,

Then skimmed the silt of its edges as the sun set on the coast.

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It's been a busy week, and I've been exploring a lot of other creative outlets which have been proving quite fruitful. I'm also collating lots of my ideas, and plan to set up a roulette-style selection to take away my option of choice. The working ideas document is currently 23 pages long, and there are some concepts which I'm very passionate about, but haven't given myself the time to delve into. I also believe that I find some ideas so interesting that their potential repels me away from putting in the work out of fear one might fail. Hence, I opt for the mindful and expressive creativity which grows from an entirely different seed, requiring less active nurturing and more compassion, care. I know I can get lost in my own process sometimes; however, it is often a writer's job to get lost with the speaker so that they may find a natural out together. Thank you.