I stand a walrus
on an arid land
of my creativity
as polar ice melts, further
aggravating the situation
to its irredeemable past.
I am now
a calcified weed
over my green plankton, past;
All freshwater naivety
that I boasted off
in words and sentences of my muse
among the shoals
are being harpooned
for a hungry take
in blood and bones
Even now
this landscape is assembling
wreckage of my past
with gusto;
as if someone has risen
in all hallowness
to the breaking voice of dusky silence;
settling its score
stillness –
as hills rises, and
the dark air
from the viper mouth;
all is getting less and less human
as more and more wind, breezes
to blow
from my buried past
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