Sestina: Pastel Dreams

My body relaxes and I feel calm.
The gentle sounds I hear when I’m alone
are racing down my warm face in turquoise
streams. I like to pretend that my pastel
dreams are more than the ocean and seashells.
Instead I realize that I am not sweet.


Galaxies unite overhead in sweet
delicious swirls of stars and I am calm.
Each instant of my life feels like seashells,
as if I’m listening to it alone.
Life is on repeat in vivid pastel
frames. Fake yet completely real and turquoise.


The sky outside my window is turquoise.
The moments I’m living feel sickly sweet
Like the scenes have been rehearsed. As pastel
filters adjust the colors to a calm
eye pleasing adventure, I’m all alone.
Most days I feel washed up like seashells


on a grey beach. When I count the seashells
it’s a disappointment to see turquoise
blind spots convincing me that I’m alone.
But the moments are anything but sweet.
This time the cold loneliness is not calm,
swirling in chaotic clouds pink pastel.


The darkness eating me isn’t pastel.
My world is no longer full off seashells
And my dim broken dreams destroy my calm
demeanor, forcing me full of turquoise
fallacies. The disgusting smell of sweet
false hope I will not be at home alone.


At the finish, I’m utterly alone.
In my artificial realm of pastel,
imagining the jubilant and sweet
days when I am not ruled by the seashells.
The time when I’m more than just the turquoise
static that drips from earth and destroys calm.


When I see the small, sweet ocean seashells
in a brand new shade of pastel turquoise
I’m finally alone, finally calm.

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