He swims through the intoxicating
mist of dreams, of memories;
searching for shore, hoping to land
upon contentment—or, even, to
feel its crashed waves, to rely on
its magnitude to keep him afloat,
to keep him surfacing…

Surfacing to what is—or, perhaps, to what forever will be…absent, lacking, yet—instantaneously—present, fulfilled, satisfied.
Perhaps, the moon will decide to change, sweeping him under, sending him along a different current. Perhaps, he is to be a
vagabond: blind—abundance is superfluous; there is no need for distractions.

But, oh, the undertow! The tie that binds hands and feet! seals lips! suspends the tongue!
‘Tis his guilty pleasure.
Yes…pleasure…

What was it like to become? to inhabit? He strives to the surface, embracing the one fond memory of oxygen shooting
into his nostrils, along with the tendrils of something sweet and wild.
‘Twas hope! Alas, ‘twas hope!

“Now, hope does not disappoint,”
quoth the man who died in fetters.
For such faith and strength he sought, even if a similar fate was inevitable.

Maybe, if he exhaled…surrendered…
After all, what he held onto
was…nothing…