What were they? Those words written
quiet and sloping on gentle waters
in their back and forth tides,
an homage to the hanging sliver moon that rested high
cradled in the clouds?
The solitary bird flew into the distant sky unaware,
for me, his quest to be an image unforgotten.
I plucked a single feather
and dipped it in the darkest water,
ink of the world of blue.
The words flowed fast
furiously splayed out with drops,
endless supply abound,
I had an inkwell of salted wetness before me
and I wrote more and more as if in a fever of need,
as thoughts filled in like a tsunami,
the prior vacancy filling up
from the cobwebbed corners to the roof,
spaces were filled to overflowing
these words came forth frantically,
and I stopped for only a moment
as my toes sunk deep in the sand
and the waves eased their movement
perhaps waiting for the next words to fall,
and I know not what was written
for the clouds obscured the light
and I searched for the sentences
for from below and within me
places where a thousand feelings reside,
they spilled their silent secrets out,
emptying the trough that had been so full.
A solitary wave moved against my feet
erasing the moment
and slipping away in the madness,
the memory was lost.
The bird flew from view
as night called my name,
I turned and walked away
forgetful of the sentences
that had brought me here.
Thoughts on a dream I had last night.