"foamed" poems
I used to write
My secrets in the sand,
Knowing they would never stay
Long enough to be told.
I used to just swim,
pulled my hair up and never
Really tasted the salt that foamed
After the crash.
I've ran in the sand,
Sure, but never have I
Ever let it smooth my
Skin into what it could be.
Before today, I've never
Let the current take me
Under and feel what it's like
To always come back to something.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
Reflections of my self, my being, my person, my soul,
Forever replayed, reshown, redone, reinacted
For the fact is
The strength that settles in my palms is ignited by the ignorance of man.
Oh man oh man how corrupt and vile does your mind be
Calculating and engineering plans and strategies
That will never leave your mind,
Free
To be or not to be
A mockerey
Of your confused biology, which hysterically
Questions your existence.
A gift so great,
Yet bronzed with your persistence to query the beauty I have given you,
Which is life!
Behind every man is a woman who loves and sacrifices their own needs and Necessities for happiness,
Clarity and justice.
A dancing cherubim dancing elegantly like a warm summer ray from your childhood Window.
Revitilises,
Re-energises,
Re-grows,
The root of your soul
As if the buds of may.
Honey toned, chocolate foamed
Milky light,
All pleasures for your delight.
Spread on to one body of immaculate perfection
Formed from Aphrodite's tears.
But the woman,
The woman possesses such omnipotent spiritual clasp on nature
That if she was to know,
Overstand
Or
Even accept a miniscule quantity of this knowledge
Then-man-would-be-woman.
To trap and encase a man like a rodent
Is to burn a ring of fire around his finger that leads life to his heart,
Where it beats impatiently to the tune of the womans song.
Skin soft, eyes lost
Sight of who I am,
Many different descriptions -although similar- still not the same,
But am I really to blame?
For the insecurities that you have belittled on me.
For my hair is long,
Then short,
Then short,
Then none.
My skin dark,
Then light,
Then light,
But not right
A constant fight,
A battle to aim for the right kind of existence but even still
I Exist!
And realise whatever you insist, still
I Exist,
Which is that gift that i hold in my being here,
Looking there
At my elegant stare,,
Which i dare
To offend the image, which you have sought to be womanly.
No longer do I fear my image
As it is a powerful icon of modern day life
To withstand the turbulent stresses and grind of strife
To help a man.
To have.
A happy.
WIFE!
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
You see, I know this guy,
with bright and gentle eyes—
sunflowers against blue skies . . .
A true angel in disguise.
He’s known since before he could fly
that he wasn’t like the other guys,
or the him in their minds, that decoy,
that never dreams of kissing a boy
for the purest joy. . .
No, he’d have to strengthen those wings
not to tangle in the strings
that sting, and cling, and sling,
to save his prince—
his king.
A feathered, armored knight,
he soars with grace and might.
In a weary world of fright,
he’d invite any height –
loyal beyond first light.
And you see, there I was, drowned in muddy water,
with gills choked on death’s slobber,
****** by the wave’s merciless slaughter
of hope, that bled and foamed atop the marauder,
and lost like the sea king’s youngest daughter,
I, a merman bobbed below the knight’s shadow.
He saw the faintest blush
of my lost soul and rushed
to grace me from my grave, flushed
and bathed me amid the rainbows in the waterfall, hushed
my toxic tears, that cursed and gushed,
and pecked my lips, as sweetly as a thrush.
His feathers fluffed, my scales standing on edge.
I nested in the angel’s white down hedge
till my heart and soul was nursed to fledge.
Our skin taught with tingly warm bumps, an intimate pledge.
I a he fell in love with he a him, and love became our kedge.
So you see, while my worries ebb and flow like the moon’s tide,
bringing questions of where a bird and fish can reside,
I trust in him I can confide, never to hide, but cast my fears aside.
We’ve already broken the surface where the air and water collide,
we need not the world far and wide,
we need only to carry each other inside
our arms, and together glide,
feathers and scales side by side.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
I
here alone apart
I realise
we are marked by the tide’s turn
and that drawing back
long aching inhalations
intakes of more than breath:
the very filling of lungs
with white and various
sounds
of beach
of foreshore
floating
in the heavy air.
Its constantness,
everywhere
together
its everywhere and together
oneness,
though with such difference
scoured into the sand
by weather’s hand
by the wind’s rough play.
II
Shield the eyes
against the glare
against the pressing wind
spinning down and past us
out of the light noon-distant high-sunned
light,
glancing the tips of bejewelled waves,
dancing, only to fall to translucent hollows,
only to rise and follow
the wave before itself,
that, even now and finally,
breaks into a foamed lace,
a fragile flower spreading
across the sand and shore,
a coverlet for this bared flesh of land,
wet glossy shiny sun-lit wet,
yet drying beneath our gaze,
leaving the infinitely-tiny
grains of sand’s
dew to glisten,
to sparkle.
III
No pathways here
after the entrance
of footprints splayed
down the slight dune
through the ammophila
down to the hard sand the littered stone.
Only up and down
across perhaps
to the sea - from the sea.
Otherwise it’s up:
to sunward windward,
out out along the jigged line
of surf meeting sand,
a self-similarity,
a symmetry breaking on the shore.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
*her opal veins cut open
the liquid candy foamed
eleven winters seasoned
with skin as pure as snow
you may have killed her virtue
but you did not **** her soul.*
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
What exactly is it that's cemented to your heart?
Is it the roses that travel through your veins, painting your heart red?
Is it the sound of the blue salt foamed waves that floods your memory with her?
Is it the melodic tones that echo through the car speaker, tranquilizing your torment ?
You don’t need to remember, love.
Your heart is a pulsating instrument of wavering feelings.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand,
With wave upon slowly shattering wave,
Turned to the city of towers as evening fell;
And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it;
And saw how the towers darkened against the sky;
And across the distance heard the toll of a bell.
Along the darkening road he hurried alone,
With his eyes cast down,
And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people,
With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . .
And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown
Here in the quiet of evening air,
These empty and voiceless places . . .
And he hurried towards the city, to enter there.
Along the darkening road, between tall trees
That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked.
Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas.
Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked.
And death was observed with sudden cries,
And birth with laughter and pain.
And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies
And night came down again.
1.6k
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
It’s the noise
That people described
When they were huddled
Around the campfires
Telling ghost stories
Back in the day
When the ground was soaking dry
And the tank top filled days
Ricocheted off of the boys
Chasing Bigfoot thought the cornfields.
The reflection of innocence
Left my mind
When reality kissed me
With her cigarette filled breath.
Leaving me
Cold,
Rusty,
Flaking away
From the radiant skin
That brushed off the cornfields.
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
It sounds like my friends
Moving away
From the innocence
And transferring
To the school
Of harsh expectations.
They were forced
To take daily vitamins
Consisting of impractical expectations
Left by the people
Who said that they just couldn't do it.
You see,
My friends didn't follow the boy scout honor,
They left traces of themselves
Behind the cracks of my skull.
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
Its sounds like the snow
Is giving a close shave
To the power lines
That crackle with apprehension.
I walk about the desserted Ice cream
That has foamed over the cornfields.
My feet seem to stick
To the people who wants me
To be just like my brother,
Whenever I creep
Through the creek of snow,
I get trapped by the vacant wasteland
All I can do is wait
For I am waiting for jack frost
to **** up my last breaths.
Crushing my soul
With the rhythm
of this humming noise
The snow makes.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The Broken Leg !!..
This morning I saw my replica in the mirror
Talking to me, he said-
Watching you today feels like a Bird without wings,
He is trying to find me
Recalling the good old days
When I never skipped a moment
To reach a new milestone daily
Longing to see me with the same old pace
Just like the fresh foamed waterfall marching towards the sea
With a constant flow seeking its way to join the infinite bundle of adventure.
Stun was I with the words that I just heard from the facing
Look at the fate of uncertainty
Here I sit with my broken leg.
As I recall the memories of my childhood
Flashing fast-food like an indelible movie
The
Rising Water,
Those dazzling Eyes,
And the sudden catastrophe
The broken sobbing Voice pleads for help
Yet nobody comes forward lend me a helping hand
I Pause my life
To witness my shattered dreams every moment
Reminding me of the tripped numbness
Yet I am still alive with my broken leg!
Infusing myself to muster the lost courage
Thirsting to set myself free from the artificial shackles
Marching towards the purpose of my existence.
-Chirayu.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
Lunch rush was hell for the new girl,
stacking foamed cappuccino cups
and stirring spoons in a broken-handled
bus tub while trying not to slip
on soft ice and discarded lemon
wedges. She took our mugs,
and told us about a guy
—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat
with his friend, comparing *** to work
over the rusted cabinet tracks
of his warped fork scraping
his egg-caked plate.
Dave's friend was leaned in
with a cocked grin waiting
for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,
which I'm guessing are all witty,
the funniest *******
things you've ever heard,
but there wasn't one
this time
because there's nothing funny about
a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight
of fat Dave and his brick
paperweight jammed in her back.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
each day i reach your door
like a wet rag with a pulse.
heartbeat ticking,
hand hammering.
here’s your pills—
stabby, pretty, blue.
my fingerprints turn into bruises;
i forget my name.
shattered feet.
socks from last week.
air tastes like floor tiles.
i think the pill looked at me first.
you never ask what’s in it,
only if i still want you to take it.
your eyes orbit my pearl earring
like satellites.
bourgeois flaws taste better imported.
“jolie laide,”
tattooed where your heart should be.
you once told me:
i love ugly things, they last longer.
i mailed my neck to your *ancestors.
no return address,
no name, no guilt.*
pupil to pupil—
*will you know
you never knew.*
hope dies once
in a bag of *dollars,
hollow with pennies.*
you swallow orders like *gospel.
who gave you empty vessels?*
i bit the pill of idiots in half,
wore it as lipstick,
*kissed your ego
until it foamed.*
i leave the door ajar for ghosts;
they smelled like your cologne.
once,
you called me
your softest affair.
pill quartered.
earring taken.
no knocking.
goliath shadows hover,
even in the walls.
*this one licked the floor
where your heart used to be.*
your name clogs my throat
like i deepthroated grief.
i stitched my eye shut
to stop seeing you.
still,
visions came
through my teeth.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 1:30 PM UTC
Start with the breath,
Shaky lately, it changed with the stains a painting formed on my chest came leaking, sneaking black bubbling death
It foamed up towards the roof of my vest,
Cough is hoarse excuse me my poorly conveying the truth I confess that maybe I've trained my brain to ignore the distress culminating the gruesome express
Eyesight now, and my Eye's feel numb
Two flocks fly in the light of the sun, side by side in a sign like a gun that stops my stride in time with the young, I wonder why and who had time to train these geese to write ******* W's alright, soon it fades from mind a two days wait until it's time to light up the night blunt try somma my cut the line trust is high up sigh at thoughts thought in my mind fuzz fought climb up bought thine scuffle what ******* geese fly in V's I'm blind cuz.
Minds in circles my muscles in decay my brain can't keep track of the ******* days
I'd buy the parcel from hovels of dismay trade for ants to keep mortality at bay
I'm afraid I wished for death too often, it waits till I'm content to grant it's bubbles while I'm coughin.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 7:58 PM UTC
Today
I Dreamed
That I was sitting with her by a small, rectangle pond
And I was talking to her.
And as she cooled, and sweetly, expectantly, almost apologetically, changed the subject,
I loosened my hair, and began to pull from the pond as it began to cloy and foamed
Handfuls, upon handfuls
Of knotted, used hair bands.
From all the times I had sat there before
And talked to her
About you.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
You were a nightmare
in a fairy tale disguise
and my heart
heart
aches so hard
you
You were ribbons of blood tied
so tightly
twisted around around my heart
I didn't mind the least, I
distorted
rains as
It fractures across my face
cracks of nostalgia
placed by lightening storms
that crackle
across
my skin
With a slight
slapping
sting
I hate time, the way it speeds up
slows
down
and jerks
me around
It slaps me in the face
Cackling with a ferocity of time travel
rewind reverse velocity
Dragging me by a thought
thread
shatter the light with
explosive
hammering in my eyelids
My atmosphere darkly
clouded
by
lowly haunt clouds
My heart rumbled thunder in my chest
my eyes swelled stormy
crashing down with foamed black water
I
I struggle to breathe with the crushing
promise broken
ribs
that cage my lungs
Your cold
spiny fingers
clutch
my heart
as it
beats
your fingernails needle poison
into
my veins
stopping blood flow once again
In your sick twisted play-time
my eyes witness
my veins
pulse
black
you
you squeeze completing the crime
blood covers your hands
you wash them clean
they are stained
blood blue
ribs splinter
your fingertips
the moon will pull
the
tide
to wash me into the sea.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
It’s December, it’s foggy and rainy, but that fits. Of course, a rainy Saturday means gathering in the common room with my roommates and watching either “The Hunger Games” or “Twilight.” Leong’s never seen Twilight, believe it or not, what are they DOing in China? We were explaining that It’s ok to talk through Twilight because it’s completely senseless. Yeah, good times.
We got back from Thanksgiving break, and we had to hit it - grinding to squeeze half a semester into 18 days. It’s a cornucopia of pressure. Yes, we’ve hit the books, but we’re still us.
Here’s a question: What’s the first season in December? “Spotify wrapped” season! EVERYONE has Spotify and once a year you get a summary of your listening habits. The reports came out this week and it’s all people are talking about. Comparing their lists, artists, tastes. Those lists say a lot about someone and it’s ok to not have taste, we should normalize it.
My top artist was Taylor Swift (duh) my top song was Taylor Swift’s “Renegade,” Spotify says I listened to it 285 times but that’s biased because more than once, when writing a paper, I put that song on a loop for 6 hours. My second most listened to song was “Champagne Problems” By Taylor. That song is so Rory, Gilmore Girls coded - like Rory saying, “you're on your own.” My other top artists are TV Girl, the backseat lovers and hypo campus. Yeah, I roll big.
Taylor’s also been in the conversation because Sophie has an ex-fem-friend (a freshman) who started seeing a 45-year-old guy. Let me ask you, what does a 45-year-old man have in common with an 18-year-old girl? We have Yale friends in their early 20s who consider themselves still teenagers and children and THEY are horrified. It’s naked fracking ********** (Sorry, that one foamed over.)
The whole situation is ripped from Taylor’s 2010 masterpiece “Dear John,” which is about her dating John Mayer when she was 19 and he was 30-something. Her friends warned her, but she wouldn’t hear. Taylor Swift can be corny, and I love the corn, but she can be topical too and even though I was 7 when she released “Dear John” (2010), it’s a timeless lesson.
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 2:01 PM UTC
Ten gassed men. Ten gassed men.
They follow blind in single file.
One turns to spew and break the chain
of shouldered hands and splintered minds.
Ten blind men. Ten blind men.
Each marked for sacrifice,
bandaged eyes and mustard faced,
lungs in foamed embrace.
Ten maked men. Ten marked men.
their eyes see what we can't
in Singer Seargeant's paint,
sights rehearsed and cursed.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
My tongue sharpened today
Angles fell off it like classroom fancies
Rationalised to a point, its first act
Was to knock out my fangs from behind.
I stumbled about the house
Slopped through the bathroom door
And foamed at the toilet seat, a
Wave broken over a rim of briny coral.
My salt winked about the walls, around the tap, between the wiped tiles
In the shower head of porous sponge
The seaweed in the pipes crawled up
And drowned me in the sickly sweet.
Downstairs smelt the same, logically the sea dumped down
Underwater fish glided past my window, all with the same
Grim face against the mirrors, aping the ocean
With me trapped inside.
I turned on the same song, fifteen times,
The sound tried to reach me with such ambition
But it floated to the top, belly up in its bubbles
Ridiculous, I scratched the date on the seafloor and entered the kitchen.
Drips everywhere, grease stalactites, from the tiles, the yawning oven, the spatulas
A Cretaceous museum where savagery is kept
In little plastic boxes, with clear peelable lids
A fresh, messy ****
In the hall the grey light descends through slit windows
Colour settling at the bottom like grit, all the greys so tall
Give the narrow rectangle an aftertaste of dust
Just one keeper before me
It devours my key, hacking as it gobbles
But it does not anticipate my twist
I gut it from inside, it spits its meal back at me
And I swing its limp, dead frame 90 degrees.
Stepping out feels like a moonwalk, with Houston's neutral formulas
Unheeded in my ear, finally I can greet the clouds, that probably escaped,
Like me, fumes from the chimney
Pale and fading away from lack of auspicious sun.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
Her singing reached a level deeper-
Nature's unspoken parameters sung.
The waves foamed and crashed
Their soulless masses on the shore,
But suddenly in rhythm with
Her song- did something more.
We could see then, the sea
Having nothing to hide, neither did she.
She simply sang.
But the sea would have nothing to say
Or so it seemed, until her song
Made poetry from its spray.
For it was her voice telling
Truth and story that given day.
Her music, more than the sea
Was how Mother Nature
We recognized, unmistakably.
Every time she sang.
The gray clouds given their silver lining,
The sun brought to its setting place and time,
Her sublime independent singing spirit
Personified sea, shore, and sky.
And we knew it every time she sang-
There was no other way or reason for her,
And for those like her, who only feel alone
When the music stops.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
Void
No earth
no space
no form
no shape
but sound
Words cracking the darkness of emptiness’s marshes
leaving foamed streaks of white lashes blazing eternity
And those streaks were the evidence of supreme thought
evaporating like the water that came to be
at the sound
The sound that occurs when one speaks
I was present then
at the disappearance of nothingness
I was in the afterthought of the brown
the green
the blue
the light
If you listened intently you could hear me
fastly approaching
following the sight
of
gray fins
magenta feathers
tan tails
swarthy scales
salmon snouts
ivory tusks
The air felt the dirt rumbling
I was coming at the speed of the hooves
of a thousand bucks
and with the loosened clay from the earth that was displaced
Abba formed a great face
a body of perfection
I was there
I was seed enveloped in water nets of life
free styling a red dance
that would cause the day’s synchronized swimmers to cease
Nothing like a case of the green eyed monster
to take away the memory to breathe
My head was pointed ahead
Body wagging
Jiggling
Shaking
Convulsing
Smelling the musk of the incubator that would grow me
And during the eons of patience
the rise and fall of great nations
a period of tribulation
as those who preceded me are innumerable
there finally came a suited portal
And only her sound
of agreement
to remain committed
find nourishment from only his *****
enabled my form
Though I was already adorned with equipment
to live with
to move
and with the authority of Abba
to speak a sound that
changes atmospheric existence
She was needed
to birth me
nurse me
nurture me
Love me enough to give me back to the One
that knew me before
Before
Before is void
It is no earth
no space
no form
no shape
but sound
Words cracking the darkness of emptiness’s marshes
leaving foamed streaks of white lashes blazing eternity
And those streaks were the evidence of supreme thought
evaporating like the water that came to be
at the sound
The sound that occurs when one speaks
I am from the sound
Let
There
Be
ME.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
With ease the flower juggled
Playing sweetly tenderly with the sun
Outside the vent of my window
Where I smelt the fragrance
Of this pretty yellow flower
Eavesdropping in my penal dream.
Could this be the fruit
Of billion trees veiled in vain
Innocent voices drizzled
And flooded patiently the weighted heart
Weighted heart of sombre days
Sombre days of beautiful injuries
All the Arabesque of the eyes
That foamed far then clad facades
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 4:07 AM UTC
how can I make a translation
of these never before felt feelings
if their language I don’t possess
one of which mine ears
have never had a previliage
of previous precous encounter
and one which overwhelms so powerfully
mine eyes; and my tongue but in realisaton
is powerless to pronounce
yet can do nothing else than confront them
these feelings, these feelings, oh these feelings
a painted mosiac of plasure and gulit
that leaves me in such a quandadry as I don’t know why
yet has me beliebve that the only thing I trust
any longer is this very moment; the moment with him
where pure and untainted feeelings break upon me
as foamed waves upon a pebbled beach
where convention does disintigarte
in splintering bursts of Vulacn light
oh to be yet disintangled in my mind
to be detached, feeling each succeeeding thought
as it seperates itself from the centreal core of my mind
to examine them in the srange sub-lit detachement
where I find myelf now floating
there is no known languange for its expression
these feelings, these felings, these feelings
only Raleigh, only Raleigh, I hope
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
i carry the ocean with me
between my lungs and heart
crashing lullabies
silver foamed crescendos
the way sea mirrors sky
& when I cry it looks
as if i’m coming up for air
it feels only a bit like crying
and a lot like letting go
salt in my veins
long lost the feeling of dehydration
more like trying to bring me home again
after being terribly homesick for years
dreaming a dream of the sea the day i let it go
keeping pieces of it with me always
the dead center of the ocean
lies closest to my heart
why my mother never took to the waves
“too cold” she always said
sand avoidance just in case
what disney would be
if no one went to find nemo
Latin for nobody
a point quite possibly never
seeing a single visitor
incessant knocking
shattering the windows
beating at the panes
let me in
please
but I helped build reason for the windows
and the lock
handed away the key
but forgot to keep one for myself
planted four flowers
but only watered three
tide after tide
never far off
tide after tide
almost reaching you but never quite
following my mother
between the resting tides
i carry the ocean with me
inside my saltwater soul
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
When the sea is blue glass brightling
and no secrets haunt its depths
I watch your yellow laughter as it sails beyond me
and does not look back
When the fields are busy with greening
I feel your hands, lazily skimming
the tall grass blades, waist height
As you languidly stride past me
Your gaze not falling behind
When the purple dusk air is full
Of vermillion butterfly wings
I see you turn slow circles, your face towards the sky
Spinning ever beyond me
I saw the grey-black thunderheads and the tang of ozone
Silver-violet forks of heaven's anger
Scarred the earth beneath
The seas foamed and swelled, thunderous with ire
All gossamer things scattered, scared
And I saw you, turning
A question in your eyes;
But
I will not be your haven
The arms you reach for in the dark
You turn from me in sunlight
Fleeing like a dust-mote, away
I will not be your haven
Unless ...
You promise me you'll stay.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC