Here he walks along the distant shoreline,
With water singing him unfinished yesterday’s
In the way his hand gently
Sifts through endless shimmers
Of the sands of his mind,
For crumbs to tracks laid
A long tunneled time away.
In creases veined to his palm,
Behind the pages sought,
The sea yearns to chalk-
The sentences flung undone,
In the white noises
Of a lonely wave.
Dissolving to puffs of slow fog,
That takes from him his eyes:
Where he began
Where he went
Where he walks
-No mans land-
Unsettled by the flayed feet
Of the restless sea;
Emptiness succumbed to
Pulls at him around-
The barren coasts bordering
The recluses map of his mind.
The dominion of a nomad.
With silver in the sands hissing-
A hollow horizon,
And the promise
Of depth in the distance.
Dunes swell and shift.
Oblique faces shimmy,
To the desolate grey culminating
In nights stone approach.
Flickers lie in the prisms
Of every distant stretch.
Salt thirsts to lick the wounds
And heal the darkness of things to come.
And somewhere in the alley walls,
Fraying behind the rheumy eyes-
He begins to recall:
The silence of the day before
And the cycle he has but given in.
Not knowing a start.
Or a nestled footprint,
Two hands apart.
Withered and thin.
The wind calls to him again,
As he fumbles torn shells
along his skein until he curls:
A fetal sage,
waiting to be lapped
By the moon and tide,
As he looks back inside
Himself a static glaze,
Cracked.
She sits, looking at him.
Blankly living in the stare
sunken to his sullen
clapped knees, his horizon
To that shoreline etched-
In hands outstretched.
She is all around him,
Unknown.
Everyday, she comes to
watch him lost to her.
She is the impossible hue
Of the tide,
The muse more powerful
Than the ocean.
Her hand,
Holds the key
To break him free-
Of this undying fallacy.
Yet he wanders-
Yet he walks-
Dismantled,
To the silent
Sea.
