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.
Empathy is Poetry 