where the islands were gone

in the hour of my dislocated Id 
purging the snowblind hedgerows 
of my blighted mind. 
where the minute of my larks are loons.
plump silver spoons in a pool of moons
sleeping in a manger.
in the Tempus, my time has more swiftly
become invalid
in a maze of white noise algebra 
deriving the sum of madness
by dividing by an infinite
collapse.

then and there i see The Map
of my extinguished constellations 
in favor of holes where 
there used to be - 
painless days. The world shone there
with too many Orchards for too many Wines.
no casks of vinegar 
have gone missing.
as they lay under rubble
and stiff winds. where I could find them.
i see the gossamer clouds of a mind
at the mercy of a somber pondering…
and islands of remote cacophony
in every sea of damage -
nameless.

and Hope.

where the islands are gone.
for they had sprouted 
wings.

and moved to a pond.