Three poems written at 4 am, of middling quality, listed in order.
Spring Plunger
a ball spins,
pirouetting around an infinite axis,
darting from bumper to bumper,
racking up digits on a scoreboard,
seeking the elixir of life
providing salvation
from the jaws of oblivion.
Minute
a cricket watches the sunset
upon an open sea,
as two doves flit among magenta clouds,
as a willow sways within the breeze,
as sea turtles
scamper towards the warm embrace
of a welcoming homogeneity.
Petrichor
the worm struggles,
damp flesh on coarse gravel,
longing for the weight of dirt,
a comforting embrace from its confidante,
respite from the unyielding sun
deafening rumble,
the thunder of trust,
a torrential ambivalence
washing away sin
from its naked skin.