Strolling southern seashore in mists of September
searching for something set to stay,
her mind that meanders,
perplexing the phantoms at play.
Voices validating vague vagrant vocations
of poetry placed in parade,
with words waged in warring,
warning of the wheighman,
who knew you had dues left unpaid.
Before the seashore became her domain,
she’d wandered the wayside of pain,
locked in psychotic box
Doctor’s ticking clocks,
saying drain her poor brain once again.
Prefer sleep on the street keep her beat from defeat
she found sound vocation once more,
tourist response sterling,
shape sand to her seeing,
she sells sea shells, by the sea shore.