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I teeter on the very brink
of indigo.
Part of me wants to let go of the lip
and fall upwards into the blue
where snow squalls fight teeming dark
for supremacy.

Turning my salted skull
to see all about
my briny heartbeat keeps the cadence
of every seventh breath
where I can stop,
check the path
and stumble onward.

Beneath the sky, the sand, the crust
beneath all that is beneath
where pearls are culled from irritation
and teardrops
is a spiral staircase.
Does it lead upward
or down,
and does it matter?

A spotlight on the scales
reveals gleams of iridescence.
A casting eye
presses fathoms deep
to find illusions hiding specters
which, when peeled,
reveal ghosts,
or so it would seem.

Here, phosphorous rocks
scrape flesh raw,
drawing blood and curses
in equal measure.
Soft bloodless fingers
sift through mistakes,
as I realize that by now,
I have forgotten colors.