Dear Fred,
It simply callous here! It is as if I’m being fed with despicable rot. The place has splotched my sun of spring that used to blossom and bloom with ivy of light and bless. Alas, it’s all sunk into the everlasting blankness and as the monotony of the today’s and tomorrow’s, in the witch-like city, London, assassinate the spellbound symphonies of the dear Caribbean. The pixie dust in me just seems to tarnish away like rust in time, whilst my darling youth drowns in meandering tears of soot.
It is only when I imprison myself into dreams, that I can truly flutter back to life in the Caribbean, for the fiendish clock of stone that sleeps next to me, this very moment, stops the moon and its stars from emanating and reflecting my sun. Though when I do purr into my dreams, chandeliers of turquoise, aqua curls glister daisies of mirth on my skin. And, there I’m with you just gazing at the waterfalls of endless hue, hauling felicity onto us, whilst the cordial and blithe symphonies of the debonair sea birds waltz into the wonder of it all.
However, it all vanishes, turning another vein of mine into rock, when the portentous morning paints its beastly, fiery scars into my ”mind; It’s reaching me, so hurry Fred, before all of me is warped into stone…
Yours Truly,
Island Man
This is my interpretation of the poem, Island Man, in the form of a letter to one of his, made-up, companions named, Fred.
