Zuihitsu of an Alternate Reality

I see the sun on the verge of a set, four games to love on a sea imaginary.
The amber-hued sky clear, as if the gods and the stars pushed the pearl clouds away to spectate.
Sparkles come to life across the waves, coming to existence only for a split second, to stare at me, just to duck their heads as if to send me off.
There’s no willing witness to a futile dream.
The calm that settled in me is starting to bubble, like the pockets of goo in Gaia’s apple pies right
out of the oven.
The golden crust like the gold reflected onto an unnamed ocean, stretched beyond my view of the horizon.
Gaia slips a slice under my nose as I try to work through the light of the broken window of our kitchen,
it’s in the poor excuse of a classroom that we call our hideout,
it’s in the home made of bricks that didn’t have drafts in every room,
it’s in the memories I can’t return to.
Apollo is almost over the edge, about to finish his trek so his sister can take over, lasting a little bit longer in our kitchen, our hideout, the pile of bricks.
Artemis can’t shine down on us when we’re under the sea, lost in numbers, with a pie that tastes like defeat.
Perhaps Atlas were to give up
five games to love, the corners of Gaia’s
lips pulled down by gravity, but her chin jutted defiantly skyward.