Becoming the isle of man
Swimming in the sunsets embers, no man is an island, but,
I have been stranded since December; the snow has yet to fall
to heighten my unenlightened senses.
The quiet days have gone by, with restless thoughts of course I
have cried for union, cried for absolution,
most of all I have felt the confusion
of feeling free without wings to take me home,
and as I shrink down near the sea,
I awkwardly feel more ordinary in feeling alone.
I toss a stone and as the ripple ripens,
the rain falls in hundreds among the outstretching horizon.
And although I am cold, the sunset warms my bones,
in its aching to sleep, I am aching for home.
But this seclusion has such a calming undercurrent,
which if I didn’t know of my abode, I could call my hope
something more spiritual in which I have been provoked.
But still my heart, moves from those apart
and sinks into the gloom, all of which I consume
for the sake of expanding solitude.
my childhood wakes in me, each day after catching fish,
I sit with my sticks finding light in the wilderness.
A spark, and then its alight, all my insecurities
cling to me like a child to the tender breast,
suddenly the ocean looks massive,
and the waves seem to have more strength.
My body feels small, delicate, fragile in form,
I feel the melancholy and then oddly I feel reborn;
and occasionally, I witness the storm,
which is like both feelings being strangely torn.
And from this my moods are let out of the cage,
as I have not been angry once since the people went far away.
The days grow strange, the clouds make shapes
always staying the same, like nature churned them out,
In shapes of Gods mouth, blowing them by the wind
So I could inhale them and deface them with my imagination.
But the frustration is that I always see faces,
always faces in the sky, traces of strangers,
like the ones that would scare me in my mothers curtains,
It's these earthly burdens that are most irksome.
But there is something about them, that I long to touch,
like they are crying out to be picked up;
and dropped into something human, Like my calling to be here
was to witness myself renewing them;
and I am to relish in them and give them my fears.
But the dreams at night are barely enough to get me by,
And since there is nobody to help I feel partially alive.
But still I try to rally toward exalted moments,
towards the calm that spurs the ocean
into a rage until the flashes in the sky are reduced to ashes,
and collapse marinating in the still mill pond;
where tidal waves can only deny they belong for so long;
untill they surface sleeping in the captivating tide,
and all the great power is realised to come from inside.
Till the waves seem depraved and nothing can stir them another way,
and they come sniveling barely lapping at the sand,
so I can kneel and touch them with my weather-beaten hands.
consuming the rock salt that heals with taste of watery deep wounds,
creeping from the fingers and seeping back into the blue lagoon.
Watching the water slaughter rocks and spit them on the bay,
beating them out of shape, my home life in a similar way,
has been transformed, So in turn I drift away,
Having only my reflection and the fear of wanting to stay.