There are maps on the ceiling,
cottage cheese maps, that tell of lost landmasses
and childhood memories.
They had trees and villages and continents,
but now they are all noise,
Just white noise I stare at during insomnia,
trying to sleep, trying to dream,
like I used to dream and think
like the ocean eyed children.
Their thoughts evolving, synapses visible
in their furrowed brows,
interpreting good and bad
and chocolate ice cream.
Learning to trust in the consistency of human
fickleness, the ebbing sea-change of adults.
But everything has lost it's clarity,
I now enjoy inconclusive endings and
bitter humor, and the dulling experiences
continue to eat away:
Each withered flower
joining the ranks of dead
and each blooming sunset becoming one of many,
the golden clouds slowly forming noise.
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