Poison pt. 2 - the island of stripped thought

Somehow I’ve been roped into a jovial love. Tracing the perimeters of a vibrant dream, you cater only to the present. To see with the skies of colourless eyes. Nurtured by the angelic layers of a stature that embraces your field of beautiful contradiction. These are the flowers that bud in waves of light, warming your fresh wick into a stream of fire. The fire of a writer. 

You aggressively wear the wind in pursuit of results. You are a poetic dismissal of purpose. Your spontaneity repels direction, but this is the path of an explorer. We must be structureless fools to walk these lands. To seek permission or revelation in a distant existence.

To what level must we trust if trust must not be visualised with fingers and lips? In a figureless shape of matter bathing in wishes. Is balance confining or hopeful? To be tortured by the liveliness of a human bottle, or poured into riches of metaphorical gold. The compass is just a contraption to one with no direction. How long must I hold onto my compass? How long must I follow an arrow and grieve for all the moments that slipped by, by miles? Where do I find the nail that will hammer me into knowing, holding, owning a purpose? The only liquid that horrifies me is the drip of a slipped dream running down the cheeks of time. I am born with desire, but not with awareness, and that’s where I slip by, by miles. 

There is an island in my mind I must visit with supplies; the black and white melodic keys repelling my fingers, the ink-less ballpoint pen with letters stripped from their tails and points, my over-washed white runners and broken rope, the paint for my paper, the paint for my doors, the paint for my skin. The way I painted you into my life. A leaf trembling in the guidance of gravity. Anxiety mummified you. How do I leave this box? Why is the sand all covered in shells now? I want to get to the water. But the tide is tired, and miles. I’ve slipped by, by miles.

Can I prune you? Cut off the debris of past self that flutters in denial. The rebirth of something that was once pure and untamed. Can you apologise to all the bulbs you tore out of the dirt and begged to keep living, for you? What do you do with all these leeches of thought? How do they expect you to sleep? Yet all you do is sleep, sleep, sleep away those inklets. Those menacing compass’ that morph into bodies and plead that you find direction! What do you do? 

At some point I was told it’s better to pretend I have been roped into a jovial love, with myself. At some point during all the pretending, the contemplation, the self-doubt…I must have slipped by, by miles. I must have forgotten how to swim to my island. 

- sage