Andrew David Dalby
The man who strolled into the sea.
The sun -in waves- glimmers still off her gossamer skin.
It reflects from her mouth: the swirling river, curling
In soft silver strokes that shines with tender memories
At once I am upon her and then -so slowly- I am within her.
And as she lets me glide in, with a smooth and silky motion,
I stroke, and then bathe with such abandoned joyful reverie.
This place is full: the ghosts stain a day of so much tender love.
Yet, they reach out from the light and lift me up to sensual sighs;
That from their pure form simply denies me absolutely nothing.
I am split open: sliced apart by their beauty and honest clarity;
And in her growing arms, a lack fear and loathing starts to flow,
Here my fists are raised towards the grey, as I meet my destiny.
Oh how I sense everything in her slow and tender motion;
In the longing the waiting, the aching, the pain and the strain,
That slowly raises in pulses within these the throbbing veins.
And the ever rolling constant tides of our long sought time;
That just so slowly thrusts turns and then oh so gently slides,
I merely glimpse her along the length of this golden shoreline.
And in the long yet subtle strokes, rests another hidden reality
Once lost to us by the lies made by our so sour present time;
Oh how truth slowly spreads in surging unfurling weaving arcs
To reach a place of no known beginning and no known end
Where ancient heaving worlds divide, as they so nearly collide,
To free this soul from the ties that make us so bitter and blind.
I float by the edge: I am the man who strolled into the sea;
For there is no other place that gives anything more to me.
I take every step so slowly, as I long to meet her gaze;
I stare at sea salted trousers but my mind is not in a daze.
I want to be with her and away from all this hard aching sky;
And with anticipation in my heart, I scream, as she gently sighs.
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