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In a still boat on a calm sea, A kite flying high above me. In a summer breeze the kite will lift Causing the boat to drift. This is life as I know it, a life to be lived, My eternal quest to taste fulfilment At the very least self forgiveness. It's an easy concept When you know who you are, I can soar like a comet, I can shoot like a star. But let the clouds be your ceiling, Try to suppress those niggling feelings, Avoid soaring away on some pointless notion, Return to the comfort of that still ocean. Return to the craft, to that life saving raft. Safe. Calm. Normal In a still boat on a calm sea An anchor weighs heavy In the depths below me. In an insular place, In the darkness of night The chain of the anchor Pulls heavy and tight. This is death as I see it. This is anti-flight. As I am dragged to the morbid bed, Nowhere to hide from the fearful dread, The black ink ocean floods my head And I writhe and I wriggle Until the chain, through rot and rust Crumbles and, like I, falls to dust. Free, I swim towards the boat. I float to the surface. I climb on the vessel, I take in the light, I bathe in the glory of a no win fight, Re-chained to the anchor, retied to the kite, Momentarily Safe. Calm. Normal. Momentarily Kind of alright Copyright Marc Hawkins 2015
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Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
THE ANCHOR, THE BOAT AND THE KITE
In a still boat on a calm sea, A kite flying high above me. In a summer breeze the kite will lift Causing the boat to drift. This is life as I know it, a life to be lived, My eternal quest to taste fulfilment At the very least self forgiveness. It's an easy concept When you know who you are, I can soar like a comet, I can shoot like a star. But let the clouds be your ceiling, Try to suppress those niggling feelings, Avoid soaring away on some pointless notion, Return to the comfort of that still ocean. Return to the craft, to that life saving raft. Safe. Calm. Normal In a still boat on a calm sea An anchor weighs heavy In the depths below me. In an insular place, In the darkness of night The chain of the anchor Pulls heavy and tight. This is death as I see it. This is anti-flight. As I am dragged to the morbid bed, Nowhere to hide from the fearful dread, The black ink ocean floods my head And I writhe and I wriggle Until the chain, through rot and rust Crumbles and, like I, falls to dust. Free, I swim towards the boat. I float to the surface. I climb on the vessel, I take in the light, I bathe in the glory of a no win fight, Re-chained to the anchor, retied to the kite, Momentarily Safe. Calm. Normal. Momentarily Kind of alright Copyright Marc Hawkins 2015
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Marc_Hawkins
Written by
Marc_Hawkins
55/M/Cornwall, UK
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
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