I had a home
on a jagged cliff
where familiar crags
eroded my feet
as they bounded across it
with what some would
call “masochism”
and rightfully so, if
they had added
“by reason of naiveté”
beneath that cliff
at the base of the precipice
and to each side
was a great gray ocean
turbulent and turgid
as the silver clouds
with the rusted lining
and creaked and groaned above
whenever they thundered
offering acid rain
and while I wondered
at their luster as they glistened
in the platinum fashion
of fresh rainfall
I assumed I was colorblind
so when I caught my first glimpse
of the optical illusion
known as a rainbow
reflected off the
deceptive iridescence
of the slick
culmination of oil
that leaks from sudiferous glands
and into acid rain
I based hue upon these things
and painted with my white blood
on the surfaces within reach
imposing colors of my choosing
imaginarily
where the sacrifice stuck
and now
a moist mound of
scrapped skin
glittering sand
and flesh-drained saltwater
this rank grey slime
this wasteland
this
is the closest
thing I have
to a home.