Eight months, eight days, and still no sight of land! The storm has died, but trauma stains the sand; Nature, she no longer directs this art. The sun It’d never make, no matter how fast the mind might run. With nothing in it, a purse is but a rag; Turn the empty sack into a white flag. Overflowing goodness, or so we think; Kindness so well-played, it could make ships sink. It must be strange, then, for who’d have thought Binding ties are time-worn lies—still, it’s sought. So convincing, those parts of play — can’t tell Those floating clouds from fluff, but cloaked in pall. Such earnestness is but a devious guise— So what? Rainbows don’t visit the clear skies.