Sink my ship
let me spill into the restless sea
these times have lost their wonder
these places lost their place
for those like me
Millenia may pass
Before I touch that elusive horizon
chuckling; mocking distance and my lust for its
thin, feeble lines,
crooked, artist's-pencil-sketch lines
black in their distance
objects of infatuation, for my suspicions of their incorporeality
Somewhat feverish,
searching for that eighth sea on the cusp of the world
that eight sea that I am never to find
But the tedium
of rocking back and forth from wonder then to disenchantment
passion to passion to senseless grief
has rattled at bone-chambers deep dark
deep dark blue
within me, and turned all to white dust
feels like fingers through my hair; and the quiet desperation
(that uncanny quiet, that wretched desperation)
of silver tongue that fears for rust
and the taste of hot wax on daring wings
oh,
these times have lost their wonder
these places lost their place
for those like me.