Wake

Having traveled the river at least twice, the Poet is no longer disappointed by the sea.

Wake

The river runs,
the wind blows,
the sail opens,
the raft goes,
my lungs breathe and
my heart knows,
when to beat
and when to skip—

when you
walk by,

your soul I sip,
and quench desire,
my lonely hunger,
never higher,
gone with ease,
into the seas,
lost the grip,
redeeming fire,
your soul I sip,
your current
in me.