South of the Wrath, North of his Pearl

September 20, 2009
By tompryz GOLD, Brick, New Jersey
tompryz GOLD, Brick, New Jersey
15 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Look west,
to scour for New Ports.
Climb a coast riding Against Me.
By a climbing sea,
climbing to the shores.
Dock Along New Ancestry Point,
foliage and all.
White Lagoons and steeple cliffs,
foliage and all.
Docile in the Echoes of lifts,
and the falls.
Where pallid sand is green grass
Bar me none by the window,
bar me none by the glass.
And the sights, and the sights,
waiting to be passed.
Wave upon wave to meet the beach,
faltered by the pier.
Speak to the sun and watch it drop.
Pink Floods Looming Over Yesterday’s Draws.
The sky is peach.
Oh, the Untouchable Cross Lying Across my chest,
pointing to our west.
Simply searching, Hunting for something more,
A century of history put to rest.
Something I’ve seen only once before.
Three to five and clean.
Endowing all its best.
And as it rained, it poured.
For standing on Orange knolls,
storming the brush and shoals,
sitting beside its illustrious quota.
Never to See And Notice Cold Lament, Easily.
Setting out to appease me.
And as it rained, it poured.
Just south of the Wrath, north of his Pearl.
Watching while it ceased me.
An Entourage of good tidings, unhindered by the clouds.
For blue skies rest behind their shrouds,
Locality of suns waiting to hear,
knowing not to jump off of the pier,
but to hit the tide and speak its tongue,
To speak loud.
An aroma of salt,
and water.
The thunder of soft rains,
the essence of temporal healings,
and pains.
But played to wind in hidden feelings
Defined by its dealings.
And the underscore Between the Bars,
rolling in the seasonal stains,
and New Slang is brought into healing,
its scars.
By and by the ambiance of these halls,
to be worth the while at all,
and plotting out the nears and the fars,
the bigs and the smalls.
For I am indifferent to this heresy,
I am the contentment that I seek in balanced curiosity.
I’m my own salvation,
I am my own all.
Alas, I return to my coastal norm,
a bountiful home is my ironic curse,
but still I have my own.
And ere the day that I pass this Earth, once before,
I’ll be back to return, once more.

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