Tuesday, May 21, 2013



It's said, no man is an island
yet from where I stand
all I see is shoreline
crashing waves and foam
lapping at my toes
no matter how high I climb
these breathless peaks of quenched fire
mine's the only road
passing by below

Sometimes from the summit
I see white wings on the horizon
always too far to tell
if they're the feathers of an angel
or the canvas of a sail
and though I set fire to a beacon
it never does much more
than warm me for the night
I guess the smoke that I send rising
toward the moon's soft argent light
loses its way among the clouds
fades behind their shroud

When it's quiet and the fire's crackle
at last dies to an ember,
the last memory of its flame
I lay back alone and listen
to the gentle humming of the world
to the subtle strain its playing
over the snare-whisk of the waves
the soft, strumming promise of her coming
an angel, a star as yet unnamed
I close my eyes to listen
feel her crescendo in the earth-song
her heartbeat pounding in my veins
and I know that with her arrival
my island will never be the same

I wake at the tide's insistence
shrug away the dream
wash off the sands of night
in the salt of the lonely sea
roll all my hopes before me
to my post upon the peaks
and when I spy another feathered sail
somewhere out to sea
I let my dreams tumble down again
to my signal on the beach.

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