Towards the Windmill

We live on a dead island
swirled about a stony mound
with corpses in its heart.
There, amid a sea of green
bare trees are littered that
peer slyly from roofless houses
with burned foundations.

And beneath the smokey sun
stirs the army of black saplings.
The followers of the rusted beast
prey upon a bleeding log
pleading before their feet.
But alas, they smother his cypress and
tear the cones from their cradles.

The bent weeds watch as
they are watched and avoided
in favour of plastic blossoms.
In a garden where blind sunflowers
are the guards of this jail,
tainted shells hide venomous pearls.
And imprisoned buds watch
their brethren surrender
to the wind from a noose.

I need to wright an arc and reach
the lighthouse looking a windmill
that beams in the distance.
Like Don Quixote traversing this
sea of mean full of hungry nymphs,
where the blades of grass hiss like
snake charmers and silence
the angst of the screaming trees.

So I start rowing with empty
plastic cups in my wake,
as if to announce my death marriage
with the sea. Then, the wind breathes
life in my sails that I reach
the line of sinister green eternally
battling the blue tranquility.