The day seemed to start in an old fashioned way With arguments, laughter and children at play, The only thing different and wholly unplanned Was the man on the beach who drew dreams in the sand, He looked different some way, as though not of this time And his pen was a silver topped cane of life’s rhyme, That drew imaged cartouches and scrolls of the day Yet the incoming tides washed them slowly away.
From pink dawn to deep twilight he wandered the shore And he always found places that he could explore, Where the gold parchment sand was untouched by the sea Where his writings were safe and his soul would be free, He would write without nought but the words in his heart Until all of life’s daydreams had drifted apart, When the twilight was lost in the heart of night’s shade And his cane drew Amen’s to the prayers it had made.
The man walked through midnight, his cane dragged behind As he thought of what dreams in the morning he’d find, And he looked out to sea with the moon in his eyes While he thought of the many ways life laughs and cries, Then he savoured the dawn as it crept into view While he sorted his dreams from the false to the true, And he wiped off his cane as he strolled up the beach For his cane’s written night dreams were not out of reach…
Confessional truth is not my aggressive ego, it is my fault. The resolution of my conflicts with time, the smell of the broken limbs, my head in hoisted fever, my eyes searching for a cloud. The ultimate otherness, of an
A misbelief breaks into rags. Still I dream of some gods on black pages piecing together the words of light. The rains come in the cage of tears, voicelessly. Striated muscles of splintered faith go to cramps birthing the avatar
couples run naked then plunge into the vast sea laughter ensues… through the duration of the night a flock of birds with intense sounds In the distance the still silence then an old man appears gets into his boat and