Untitled VII

I am no longer a poet and I’ve never been one in the first place. The crown of laurels has finally been taken and I’m eventually departing from this land of conundrums and responsibilities. A bare head as vacuous as these words I’m crying upon this digital page, I am now but a simulacrum of losses and removals, with a glimmer of hope that someone could still worship this empty statue of mine. The hand is tired, the body is older, the eyes are drowning in perennial drowsiness and I’m wearing melancholy like an April shroud. I gave up smoking weed, not for resoluteness but due to a panic attack wrongly mistaken for a heart attack. But I’m happier now, for dreams are finally unstuck from the swamp of my mind.

I’ve never set sails on a distant horizon. My mind goes adrift most of the time. I like to liken myself to the incommensurable expanse of water and its easeful tune that comes from the waves, lapping gently at my feet, the wish and urge to let some of my innermost intrusive thoughts -
that gather like a myriad of ants - drown
and merge with the blue and the green, to be finally unseen, forgotten, dispersed. I’m briefly dancing upon the incessant undulation of the sea. Yet, waves makes me think that I’m one of them. For just one moment, I exist in the temporary drama of separateness, a lonely wave that surges and then falls back into the trough becoming the sea again. Maybe I’m just part of a bigger scheme. Maybe it’s just a rumbling of my discontent. Maybe I just need to accept that drama called life or reality.
Yet I still dream of setting sails on a distant horizon, to be finally free, to be a mere imperceptible point of attention in the middle of the boundless — yet limited to the human eye — sea of consciousness.