Dominion of a Nomad

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,



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,



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-

To the silent


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