adventures in dysthymia

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

SINK

There are no tides upon the sea of time,
where swimmers stroke the blind still water, dark
caresses carrying them on in stark
insistent acts of purposed pantomime.
Who spoke to us this languid liquid rhyme
of life that takes some drunken diver’s arc
into the deep and leads each to embark,
to journey onward, seeking the sublime?

There rise no tides upon the silent sea;
no subtle currents seek to sway the course
we choose, as destiny is proved to be
only the shadowed mirror to our force.
See how the moon is drowning! Are you free,
oh swimmer? Sink; sink slowly to your source.

Stephen Brooke ©2007

Don't ask me what it's about. I only wrote it.

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