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Sometimes, you have to walk away. 4-14-2021 |
Empty Seas Bloated fish-belly moon rides low in the sky burdened by a night replete with the unfulfilled romantic desires of those blinded by darkness who cannot see what lies at their feet. Eyes scanning heavens for tomorrow missed today. The heavy disk sinks into a roiling sea as dawn hints at arrival. In broad light of following days, much as seas, when winds fill tattered sails of expectations, the tiller cannot achieve anything if hands stray from the sheet, if mind is goaded by calling birds. Days, all too short, fall to the gloaming, clouded minds shutter the very stars. Cannot chart a course, find an azimuth, without seeing. Gilded tomorrows blind in refracted glory: true sight requires seeing as much as looking, just as one might hear but never listen to words uttered. Casting blame like tainted fishnets will never fill a hold nor feed a hungry soul. Blooded nails, gouged to the quick from hanging on to last straws, bits of rope, pull through, gain ground even as currents are fought. Expectations of sleepy existence, when the sheet slips from negligent fingers, when the sails fall to the sea, dragging all under will never know which direction to swim. Will, inevitably, sink. Smooth seas above will show no signs of its meal, leave no scraps behind for she is an exacting mistress and most unforgiving of those who will not work to stay afloat. There is little sorrow in the missing of the soon forgotten. Having never made their mark in the ways of counting, having plugged their ears to what they didn't want to hear, having charted their course on false stars they were never, ever going to sail on home in triumph. Worse, few will ever notice, having learned to turn away to thwart the pain of caring for those who never cared. New crescent moon tips drunkenly, spilling out moon-beamed possibilities upon a smooth sea. The stars, ever attentive, shine a bit brighter in anticipation that the next ones will deign to listen, to possibly learn to swim that they might stay afloat. Starfish cast nets to catch the clouds, to hold back the coming storm. Even Neptune lowers his trident in defeat. You cannot open a closed mind, nor unlock that which no longer has a key. Just as love cannot be forced nor acceptance guaranteed, just as good intentions must land on fertile ground and a good harvest requires willing hands, there comes a time when all has been tended and tendered. Time then to see if sail or scarecrow rides at half/full mast, to see if heavy nets are full of catch or crows. And still, one can only watch, as stars in the heavens are forced to do. We can no longer bait their hooks, no more wrap them in jacketed life. It is neither appreciated nor wanted in their blindness. They gouged out their eyes and may never see the truth. The planet continues to spin, the tides rise and wash the sands clean. And the moon, will grow full and wain yet again. Forgiving time, we wait. |