islands

            Island.
      No man is an island,
  Though he designs to be.
He builds it with inactivity,
  His lethargy,
    His anti-sociality.
      He wishes of waters,
  That they drown him
In obscurity.

  But he’s seen;
    Nonetheless, he’s seen.

        Blooming on the sail,
        And green;

    Like the grape, he’s pristine
  For the plucking.

Yet, half-chuckling,
  He dizzies the fervor:
      Culled and after shucking,
    He holds his choices.
  Voiceless, he sings;
The doorbell rings
  Of forgetfulness.
      Rings mean
            Nothing.

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    Poetry: Crab
        https://windstrewn.com/2017/12/07/crab/