The Sea and Dark

A rhythm of the body would not stop
the flow of chemicals from here to where,
and never end the feel of music
in our heads and fingers like the breeze
that lifts the sky and trees
to heady excess through the moonlight.
In the dark we lived like whales;
no home, no things; a simple life,
becalmed between the forties
and the freedom of the ocean.

At seven years of age we left this world
for life and love and work and dance.
Our minds were filled with things;
ideas and ambience for living easily.
The world came to our feet like poetry
to force us down the roads to poverty.
The sickness of the things we do
has overcome the feel for what is right
and what we know had made us metal,
automata and drones in silver skies.

I would become a cloud of thoughts,
a fabrication of the chemicals that make us,
to cloak the world with my last breath,
and flood the empty desert with a rain
of passion for the lost and empty minded.
In a thousand dreams, the people meet
and fall into each other's heads,
breaking patterns with a spark of life
that lives and flies in one another's hands,
to break the river banks with reason.

They tell me take the passion from the poetry,
avoid the red and heated arguments of love,
live calmly on the beaches in the sand and lie
to read the rights of those who tell you all.
And I would scream at anyone, the tales of Earth,
the tales of Sea and all the animals that make it.
My enemy would wither, waterless like whales,
driven to the shores so understanding
by completeness and the theories of now.