Bloody hell, the sky is clear And I'm here to write poetry. When sound doesn't do it for me anymore, I do something for it in return. Sometimes with wet hair, Other times with wet fingers. I used to call myself the sailor of my feelings, But haven't done much of that since, So I don't think the liquid justifies the inkling. (unfinished due to thoughts about sinking)
To the light of day my sadness seems ridiculous, impossible, A tale of introspective boredom. The sun shines a bright light inside me and everything becomes white and indistinguishable. Joy is but a star Drowned in its own flaming crest, A white wind spread across my window. Without light I am shade and doubt, I think about truth and expound it through to the gorge Never to be seen again. Our Sun, who art in Heaven.
I'm a foot soaker But still unaware of the process by which things become grey. I'm a foot soaker so I speculate The ray hitting the sail and taking it From creak to river, from river to sea. Colour and life dissolving in the late afternoon Into a vaccum. How am I still unaware of the process by which things become grey At least one time a day?