the reflection that spoke back

dressed up to look like a clown whose mind is quite perplex - at a grinning specter walking in dreams he can not tear himself away from. following, just a footstep away with breath rather labored but the ship is speeding past those violent waves. not getting crushed up like a bone in a dogs jaw: breaking sound marvelous to a pack all digging up old skeletons deep inside. a high tide, a high fever, is there a difference with ship snapping away at the winds quite untamable. the core tries to make contact with skin - skin claws back, afraid of what the inside will show, a fine linen weaves about. with smoke heating up the boiling sea, the volcano spews out red orange hurt, eager to tell what reflections show. they're not benign, not the stories a raging tempest tells herself as she tears apart a ship headed towards the docks. where the pack of dogs have now gone to slumber, filled with regrets and chaos when the bones begin to tear at innards. and then the ship blasts apart, with howling dogs no longer marveling about while a clown finds his masks littered all about. no one knew who he was, that person inside. not even the clown recognized the bones within, the skin taut with a tempest still wild and chasing. specters moaning desolately - they drift like zombies towards light, of red orange hurt, groaning away when obsidian forms. it's here. it's now. it's permanent. and neither wind nor stone could remove that taint.