Your speech is confusing,
bemused tongue-lashing where we thrash
and capsize. I’m a buoy in the sea
that throbs: black, red and grey.
Words thrown, by a man, overgrown,
who strokes time, golden and fluid,
thunders like knives; unknown, unwise.
We nod to the thrum of progress,
shunting to paradise,
our tongues static as time.