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by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2248405
Sometimes, you have to walk away. 4-14-2021

Empty Seas

Bloated fish-belly moon rides low in the sky
burdened by a night replete with the unfulfilled
romantic desires of those blinded by darkness
who cannot see what lies at their feet.
Eyes scanning heavens for tomorrow
missed today. The heavy disk sinks into
a roiling sea as dawn hints at arrival.

In broad light of following days, much as seas,
when winds fill tattered sails of expectations,
the tiller cannot achieve anything if hands
stray from the sheet, if mind is goaded by calling birds.
Days, all too short, fall to the gloaming,
clouded minds shutter the very stars.
Cannot chart a course, find an azimuth, without seeing.

Gilded tomorrows blind in refracted glory:
true sight requires seeing as much as looking,
just as one might hear but never listen to words uttered.
Casting blame like tainted fishnets will never fill a hold
nor feed a hungry soul. Blooded nails, gouged to the quick
from hanging on to last straws, bits of rope,
pull through, gain ground even as currents are fought.

Expectations of sleepy existence, when the sheet slips
from negligent fingers, when the sails fall to the sea,
dragging all under will never know which direction
to swim. Will, inevitably, sink. Smooth seas above
will show no signs of its meal, leave no scraps behind
for she is an exacting mistress and most unforgiving
of those who will not work to stay afloat.

There is little sorrow in the missing of the soon forgotten.
Having never made their mark in the ways of counting,
having plugged their ears to what they didn't want to hear,
having charted their course on false stars they were
never, ever going to sail on home in triumph. Worse,
few will ever notice, having learned to turn away to thwart
the pain of caring for those who never cared.

New crescent moon tips drunkenly, spilling out moon-beamed
possibilities upon a smooth sea. The stars,
ever attentive, shine a bit brighter in anticipation
that the next ones will deign to listen, to possibly learn
to swim that they might stay afloat. Starfish cast nets
to catch the clouds, to hold back the coming storm.
Even Neptune lowers his trident in defeat.

You cannot open a closed mind, nor unlock that which
no longer has a key. Just as love cannot be forced
nor acceptance guaranteed, just as good intentions
must land on fertile ground and a good harvest requires
willing hands, there comes a time when all has been tended
and tendered. Time then to see if sail or scarecrow rides
at half/full mast, to see if heavy nets are full of catch or crows.

And still, one can only watch, as stars in the heavens
are forced to do. We can no longer bait their hooks,
no more wrap them in jacketed life. It is neither appreciated
nor wanted in their blindness. They gouged out their eyes
and may never see the truth. The planet continues to spin,
the tides rise and wash the sands clean. And the moon,
will grow full and wain yet again. Forgiving time, we wait.

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