damp grass from the hillside
is cold on my feet as I walk
hands in my pockets and head looking down
legs leading slowly downhill
towards the sea.

There's something about going for a walk
that makes it easier to think
even if you completely ignore your surroundings
or don't go very far.

The sand surprises me
the soft white powder that shifts between my toes
and my feet slip a little with every step.

For the first time in a while, I look up
the sea is darker than usual, it's turbulent as well,
but I stop for a moment on the edge of the water.

Imagine If I fell in
I'd probably turn into driftwood and then just float off
until the water pushed me up onto some deserted beach
and then pulled me back in
and then pushed me up again
eternally caught in the space between sea and shore

the space between here and there
between is and isn't
between impulse and inactivity

I'm already there.

I

I don't write poetry,
I just cut phrases in half
and I make them my verses,
confessions and feelings.

I don't create rhymes,
I just join beautiful sounds
and I make them my songs,
hymns and serenades.

II*

I'm not a poet,
I'm poetic.
And when I find my soul,
I will be able to die alone.

I'm not a poet,
I'm an engineer of words.
And when I find my poetic soul,
I will be able to rest in peace.