(no subject)
the ocean feigns many tales,
flowing waves
like so many head-ridden whispers
lend credence to the superstitions about,
give voices to the emotions that pull,
pay allowance to the shadows with which we dance,
shied away where no one can see,
least of all ourselves.
the waters so silently agree
to what we apply,
lovingly caressing our desires,
our earnest quest for meaning,
purpose,
and we listen to what we tell ourselves.
another dawn approaches,
more cycles,
continuous, unbroken,
moving on with no notice to us,
only slightly less often than we notice it.
there is more, always more,
so much pushing out,
screaming, pounding,
reaching
with no outlet,
no voice upon which to attach itself
... and so it turns inward,
seeking a point of reference
that it cannot touch,
cannot see nor feel,
...and thus despair is born.
it rests there, in that hollow,
feeds on the intangibles,
yearns for release,
solace and peace
i speak no truths here.
i speak only of the things that need to be said
instead of speaking them directly.
all told,
i say nothing because i lack the fortitude
to face my demons.
partly, i record this in hope that others
may act where i do not,
and partly in a vain hope for a caamora for myself,
a cleansing to shine my true light upon myself.
be what you need, not what i seek to use.
~*~
flowing waves
like so many head-ridden whispers
lend credence to the superstitions about,
give voices to the emotions that pull,
pay allowance to the shadows with which we dance,
shied away where no one can see,
least of all ourselves.
the waters so silently agree
to what we apply,
lovingly caressing our desires,
our earnest quest for meaning,
purpose,
and we listen to what we tell ourselves.
another dawn approaches,
more cycles,
continuous, unbroken,
moving on with no notice to us,
only slightly less often than we notice it.
there is more, always more,
so much pushing out,
screaming, pounding,
reaching
with no outlet,
no voice upon which to attach itself
... and so it turns inward,
seeking a point of reference
that it cannot touch,
cannot see nor feel,
...and thus despair is born.
it rests there, in that hollow,
feeds on the intangibles,
yearns for release,
solace and peace
i speak no truths here.
i speak only of the things that need to be said
instead of speaking them directly.
all told,
i say nothing because i lack the fortitude
to face my demons.
partly, i record this in hope that others
may act where i do not,
and partly in a vain hope for a caamora for myself,
a cleansing to shine my true light upon myself.
be what you need, not what i seek to use.
~*~