Blkrubbersoul
10-14-2008, 05:07 AM
An early fall breeze tickles the nostrils
of dark bays and cliffs on the shore.
Entering the cavities, the wounded
rock walls plagued with caves, it gushes
inside them, spills out from the gashes
and races upon the tide and onto the sea.
The breeze, now a wind,
taunts the waves, calls the water
to fight for its name; element to element,
body of liquid to body of nothing but movement –
a mating dance, a sacred ritual of an ancient battle
declaring war on the spray of the sea, its tears of anger.
Some may call it a storm, this gathering force
that troubles and wakens from slumber
all the gages, ecstatic, anything but static.
And the sea gazes, glazed over by the sweeping
sweet whispers of the warm western winds,
provoking, enraging, enticing the watery flames
of the waves, which stay enslaved to the sea,
bounded by atoms aspiring upwards, in love
with the wind that can only carry but a few drops
onto the land where it cries back to the ground
for its lover the sea, that can never come on the journey
without severing all bridges of nature.
And if it could –
It will be the revolution that revolves around
their rotating rebellious body parts of water and air
that quiver to vibrating electric charges, exploding
on a subatomic level all around us and crash
the unstable ground under our very feet
as it becomes a landslide in front of our very open eyes,
gasping in amazement at the beautiful destruction
when sea and wind become one.
of dark bays and cliffs on the shore.
Entering the cavities, the wounded
rock walls plagued with caves, it gushes
inside them, spills out from the gashes
and races upon the tide and onto the sea.
The breeze, now a wind,
taunts the waves, calls the water
to fight for its name; element to element,
body of liquid to body of nothing but movement –
a mating dance, a sacred ritual of an ancient battle
declaring war on the spray of the sea, its tears of anger.
Some may call it a storm, this gathering force
that troubles and wakens from slumber
all the gages, ecstatic, anything but static.
And the sea gazes, glazed over by the sweeping
sweet whispers of the warm western winds,
provoking, enraging, enticing the watery flames
of the waves, which stay enslaved to the sea,
bounded by atoms aspiring upwards, in love
with the wind that can only carry but a few drops
onto the land where it cries back to the ground
for its lover the sea, that can never come on the journey
without severing all bridges of nature.
And if it could –
It will be the revolution that revolves around
their rotating rebellious body parts of water and air
that quiver to vibrating electric charges, exploding
on a subatomic level all around us and crash
the unstable ground under our very feet
as it becomes a landslide in front of our very open eyes,
gasping in amazement at the beautiful destruction
when sea and wind become one.