This could be me,
As he sat drowning.
Without water a lonely table,
Always takes him in.
He grabs the mast-like mind swiftly,
And a pen with his other hand gently.
The shore a dream,
A secret reality no trail involved.
Just a thought and some words,
That seem to lead the way.
Bare feet in meaningless sand,
Gripping to all one can't have.
Those stars and moon aren't real,
Only all that life can give out.
But such a thing so far away,
What does it mean anyway?
Slowly descend into the trees,
As the palms make rude faces.
The ferns have a life of their own,
They're faces that I tend to know.
Most I have known so well,
Some I haven't met yet.
Where is this island truly,
I'm lost, lost.
-
Author:
Thinker (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 19th, 2021 21:51
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 31
- Users favorite of this poem: rebmasters
Offline)
Comments1
it feels that way, I think most can relate to your depiction of stale: self-inflicted solitude..
but islands are connected by the sea, like we - to society
and what more connection to everything in existence, do we need
than water, we just need to give-up that tap of easy access
and go outside to excavate, our own pools
while connecting with those like-minded
aquifer - integrity: enthusiasts...
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