Departures. Scattered Illusions.



You take it as a sign,

gulls circling in the sky

where the sea meets the land

the point of departure

to keep from sinking in quicksand

to keep from thinking that routine

is anything but an hourglass

that you planned to go down.

Choosing instead the unknown.

To loosen the thread and unravel

these temporary homes,

to forfeit comfort,

wind-borne and thrown

into the tatters of travelling alone.

Set afloat and where it goes?

You don’t presume to know,

this crooked course,

hair in a halo,

where every moment is slow-glowed

in an infinite wish to be everywhere at once,

on all points of a disfigured design

stretching over an entire area of time,

it props a half-cracked oar

in reason’s razor sharp door

that is like a mouth

surfacing to swallow you from inside

the grey-blue movement of the mind.


until thinking of nothing.

“The current runs on,

making wanderers of us all.”

Ideas rising from the sea

like all the monsters of mythology

dripping with marine algae

and all the barnacled accumulation

that grows around obligation.

Submerging here,

surfacing there,

rising above personality

like the waters of displacement

sending waves in its wake

to raze the port of your tiny city.


Scattered Illusions

All the elaborate plans

and exaggerated illusions

become scattered

under the hanging clouds

of what’s to come.

Faces and goals

become physical spaces

for the myriad roles

dispatched to railroads

on an enlarged panorama.

They watch each other in passing,

worlds colliding

where the glass is dividing,

time will not hold them apart,

there is no soundtrack

to lead these memories to heart.

Scenes to arise in song

long after the conductor has gone,

long after you were discarded

at some all night depot.

Whatever will be

now rests in neon debris,


with a repetitive flickering,

until lulled to sleep

in a place they will not wake me,

call me stranger

nor hold me close,

there is no closing time here.


2 thoughts on “Departures. Scattered Illusions.

  1. there is no soundtrack
    to lead these memories to heart.
    Those two lines speak volumes to me. And are the saddest parts.

    • domtakis says:

      Some memories I associate with certain music, they fit right in there like a mix tape and are a source of comfort. Others were so vagrant and independent of anything else, they seemed to lead nowhere. Perhaps that was their appeal.
      I’m glad it spoke to you, thanks for commenting.

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