There is an endless ocean of blue hues
claiming my breath.
Underneath my feet, the space between my thighs,
the waves dance, high on Fate.
It does not matter that I do not wish to go,
the waves are there to take me regardless -
the laughter slowly dies,
the fish think that I too own fins
because I keep going deeper and deeper,
their bodies barely distinguishable
as I'm unable to stop the current,
as I become the current,
as I am the cold flow and warm swirls.

The black rocks are silent giants,
witnesses of this repetitive transfiguration -
the entrance,
the commencement of the dance,
the reconfiguration of senses;
the lost voice.   

Re-visited Thrice

I keep re-visiting the same vision.
I step out into a land of green
and an endless road of woven asphalt and dried-up dirt,
the sun arching over my back,
my shoulders feeling the gentle breeze
as my feet begin to go up the hill.

Always - the green;
the trees,
the swaying grass,
the foliage partly covering the sky.

Always the movement,
the sound of rubber on the ground,
as I climb and run,
as I distress and shake the days off
and succumb
to the motion
less gravity.

Perhaps I could be your sanctuary
of flowing skirts and grainy pictures.