Washed Out
Deep is this sea of pain
The realm of a grand divide.
Broken, brittle bodies
tumbling, cascading
through a bubbling void,
picked clean
of the dawn’s smudging light
by schools of ebb and flowing fish.
Still.
We shed form for oblivion,
hugging onto the wisps of whales.
Nothing is something
lost beyond the frame of thought.
Haunted lovers wail from sleeping shores,
crumbling with the lapping roars
of water-borne lions.
Surging into totems of empty sound, we sustain our spirit.
Clouds gather about a paper moon,
dimming its light, yet
vignetting its dimensions.
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