Dreams pull like a rip tide
at a soul thrashing for the sand,
that clutch and surge
of power in the terror felt,
as one is drawn inexorably
to the deeps.
The soul fingers the hem
of that ocean's spirit
and quails, monsters and mystery
anciently running the fathoms flicker
and flash like barracuda scales or
the muscular surge of the whale's
eerie echoed song, far off and haunting.
For the moment, here is turmoil,
the ragged edge where
seashells grind in the sand
to nothing, and waves roll in the level
sunlight thrown back in curling gleams,
but soon, out past bar and breakers,
the hectic shallows drop off to the long blue darkness,
and the soul is swept away in the churn
of little bubbles, to sleep
among hidden fishes blind of eye
but sporting tiny lights and endless hunger.
The soul knows that hunger,
runs its tongue across a mouthful of fangs;
smiles, and finds itself
swimming hard for the bottom.
Not really thrilled with the last stanza, suggestions on that in particular and the poem in general are of course welcome and encouraged.
I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my senses discover'd the infinite in every thing ... I cared not for consequences but wrote." ~William Blake
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