The Activity of Water

 On the surface

Of oceanic soft touches

The floor of aquatic witches.

Ripples, if you’ll notice, silent

Mysterious

And born of a stone’s luck.

Predators can always wash in

Whose corpses will choose themselves

Over the Ocean’s.

 

We are not in our natural home,

We are not safe in the wave land

Without our assumed luck.

 

At some life’s moments, the peril

Of drowning

Has spoken in the nerves, so much.

Waves in lulls, audibly faint crashes,

Carry in relief

And we erupt into laughing.

 

The ceiling of shallow Ocean,

 it’s convenient

To be taunting

Water, movement lulling

Still, moody, the reality of suffering

And the illusion of loving

On the bottom, bored, once the

Stone has struck.

 

Like as the water with aplomb is clearing

And directs waves to approve upon the shore,

I’m pleased to be meeting

You on the surface, like Narcissus of old.

How do you do?

Much after.

 

Why?

The fluidity of solid gold

Is pegged the same as continuous as illusions’ flow.

We live with those

There on the land, our natural plan.

At some life’s moments, come to water.

Wash loneliness with honesty,

Away like Narcissus’ daughter.

A single droplet waves back better

Than

The activity of water.

 

Yet boredom, as from a stubborn closed

Conch shell with back wash stymied from a wishing well

Futility and painful memory taunting.

It’s final strike on the bottom,

Once it is struck,

Finally and hopefully forgotten.

 

The fading difference is

Narcissus was gracious to exist

Inside a myth.

 

Crash goes the awakening of the waves,

On your spirit mouth,

With the Ocean’s drool on your face.

With spray upsetting the tide,

Lightly blinding the eyes.

 

When you are told to see the Horizon

You are told you are just young.