She. He. Waves hitting shorelines.
Drifting...
Back out of consciousness,
into tributarys of memory.
A weightless floating,
into oceans of other things.
Thoughts; bouy, bob and break.
Silting...
Mutable harbors of the self.
Building dams of edifice
out of wet clay.
Truths' silent deconstruction?
The white wheeling bird,
Soaring...
In clouds of bright appetite
like a knowing chorus,
sings us, back from this.
the ever flowing water's edge.
She is Crusoe, gazing agnostic waves,
Dreaming...
of more self evident landscapes.
A creedless martyr!
Burning fires for ghost ships,
lost in sea lanes.
He draws horizons in verse lines,
Speaking...
as broken driftwood, in fragments.
Illuminating abstracts by suns decline,
identifying the end of himself
in moments such as these,
No comments:
Post a Comment