Did I mention that I can't stop writing Sestinas?

(Also, I've been taking the six words for each Sestina from particular poems that we've read in my Into to Poetry class. These Sestinas are my final "creative project" for the class.)

from Rorschach by a poet I'm too lazy to look up right now.

----

I hear the flutter of wings
like the twisting of a road
on a map, a stain
on the lips of one who's been kissing a flute.
Every time you light a cigarette,
someone awakes on a deserted island.

On the shore of this island,
the sun rests in the ruby wings
of birds, glowing like a cigarette
left on the side of a road.
The wind blows here with the sweetness of a flute,
but it leaves marks on the sand like stains.

Did you notice that stain?
It's shaped like an island,
abandoned like the cry of a flute
in the night. This night that came in on wings,
and left its footprints on the road.
You pierced that night with your cigarette.

I put out the cigarette
on your shadow, but it left a stain
on your mouth. Your tongue is the road
that I take to our island
where the wind comes in on wings
and sings to us like the whisper of a flute.

We put the world on pause to listen to the flute.
The sound fills our ears like cigarette
smoke, and I can see the morning's wings
approaching. The newborn sun leaves a stain
on the sky, and the clouds sort of form an island-
a sacred place at the end of the road.

Our sacred place is at the end of that road,
where we speak with the purity of a flute.
And when we get to this island,
I will meet the sand like a mouth meets a cigarette.
Until then, you leave yourself on me like a stain,
and I could swear I have wings.

This island is our final road,
and we'll depart on wings that hum like flutes;
a cigarette forever illuminating our stain of sky.