Seeking the way, like a cool stream of spring snow melt down the mountain side, flowing into the fissures and valleys of obscurity. Delving softly with intrepid fingers, the depths of silence. Twisting and contorting in catacombs of darkness where the eyelids have dreams parading behind them and the wind of words fill to bursting, my sails.
Nourishing hidden metaphors with my pages, deep wells of purity seeking the feet of the sea, hands dripping ink stretched outward in supplication.
Waters within me; blood, ink, flesh, tears, life, pulled by the magnetic gaze of full moon fever, ’till I sway like a tree does in the rhythm of wind. As the tides do, as the ceaseless breaking of waves on the shore, I push and I pull, in the dance of my pen.
Out in the distance, like the calling of a sea bird, or like something large that brushes you in the sightless depths, is the awareness of other swimmers in those celestial currents. The siren-like call of a sculptress, mournful wail of a poet, the tortured pleasures of a legend in the Tower of Song… Midnight melodies and echoes of ghosts like expanding ripples, rocking my boat.
The inexplicable is wordless, only fragments here of the Truth, reflecting the sky like shards of broken glass- or like the stars that lay sparkling on a bed of black velvet. Beautiful but fractured is my grasping at Unity, for I am a disposable vessel for an immortal knowing.