Confections

For too long I have been sailing patiently on your gooey confections,
bound towards the darkest skied glacier.

Your eyes consistently shoot smog like putrid lighthouses,
but when the ruse falls, an accurate booby-trapped arm manages to appear.

At the reflection of a trick,
automatic mountains surrender a weight
and I am replicating northern stars again.

Perhaps these are the ones making your comfort seem so traceable.
Or is it just an old pallet from which you have chosen to reformulate a blame.

Surprisingly enough,
It is you that I covet.