The poem was like a silhouette
that waits for form,
a subtle weight in white sands,
it baits the creator
to express shape,
to conform to something
beyond the illusion of escape.
What is is what will change.
A beach, a set of words,
being released to the storm surge.
There was no scale to measure
the drawn drapes of a blue room receding
only to resume where there is no longer land,
just a moving wall and a disappearing man
dipped in ink
crossed out in dreams,
a rapid eye, a blinking screen
enclosing all thought
in static explosions of surf.
Into the drink, the before birth,
all liquid comprehension.
The gesturing wind
was an extension of limbs,
trees and inaccessible forests,
mangrove, black river cypress.
All that is concealed eventually sees light.
All that is consumed within a vast appetite,
the regurgitated words, the message often missed,
the pools beneath falls hold the tears of the mist,
like a lament for all the passing moments.
Clouds draped shadow over the valley walls,
slowly it crawls, this spirit revealed
in shifting hue,
in subtle song,
how it quickly withdrew
but remains long after the form is gone.
yakskinpocketnotes 