Far from the high home
into the low shallow sea's coast,
light sand impressions pace the shore,
treading memories of old.

New loves and heart songs
ebb just as the curl crest sprays white foam.

Small hands mold sand into kingdoms,
towering from dawn till dusk,
but falls as all great republics do
with changing tides.

Toes dig deep into wet grain
and new waves bury them deeper.
Eyes fall to the west as the sun
sets the siring sea on fire.

It seems suddenly forgetfulness seeps in.
Where is the high home again?

An expression.
Something I can put my mind on like
a thumb print for the world to see.
It’s a way of speaking without
having to worry about making sense,
or worrying if people understand me.
It’s completely limitless and under my--
control.
I can abuse it, address it, analyze it,
bend it, break it, bushwhack it,
create it, contort it, cultivate it,
destroy it, design it, disembowel it,
explore it, fabricate it, hijack it, hurl it,
love it, man-handle it, mold it, mutilate it,
scatter it, stretch it, strip it, synthesize it,
translate it, torture it, undress it,
and it will always ask me to come back.
It will always call to me asking for more,
telling me to express myself.