I Found Where Ponce De Leon Happily Drowned

Under the dim, natural lighting of a celestial fortress forever far away
I burned my confessions into my arms.
The ashes blackened my skin; the sting was partly pleasing.
I rambled about the greatness of man’s insignificance and called it quits.
He took back his lighter and went inside
while I waded through the valley of ashes to my bike.

My shadow outpaced me with no regard to my effort.
The cracks bled into each other as I leaned forward, watching each puddle
provide a fresh layer of paint to the thin, rubber tire.
Something got caught in the spokes but quickly broke free as I embraced the breeze.

The asphalt looked sleek from the rain while my tire made the water sing and gravitate.
I suddenly felt as though I were in John Cheever’s “The Swimmer.”
Pools and rivers connected Cheever’s neighborhood
whereas the sidewalks and roads were my tree branches.
The storm was raging as I rode through the concrete jungle
with raindrops penetrating my jacket, pelting the surface of my skin,

My scars tore open from the relentless rain;
the ashen skin bled endlessly,
meshing into an epicenter of soot, blood and rain.
Pulling aside from the sidewalk, I knelt at the flood-induced pond cloaking the hill.
After inspecting its cloudy reflection, I dipped my arms in—with hopes
that someone would grab my hand and hold it
while I cleansed my confessions.