Melia
2020-09-27

***

like the gentle beating of the ocean's waves
the anhedonia comes once more to play
like a seed buried deep in the chambers of my heart
germinating each time the tide floods into the bay

they told me to draw and to write what you know
so I buried myself far deep down below
like I'm watching a cat lie on a table of glass
the boots pound like thunder as on the street above they pass

a wyrm whose tail blossoms into a tree
a weeping willow overlooking the sea
like a fisherman, I cast my line of gaze far
a weary soldier recalling a distant war

a Solstice of solitude, hair fire, face flush
painting strokes of water on a rock with a brush
but the lines evaporate, words into air
as if I'd never uttered them
as if they'd never been there

"wherever did my Godhead go?" I cry
frustrated with the fallow fields of my mind
that bear no fruit, that offer no face
to save me from appearing to myself a disgrace

for what use is a brush without bristles?
a plow that cannot? a blog sans epistles?
a potion of health that just makes one swoon?
ambition unable to touch even the moon?

the feathers in my hair rustle in the wind
an impostor, severed from what would be my kin
had I been born in different place and time
had never ceased the gentle tinkle of outside wind's chimes

all alone under this tree's shade I sit
watching the ocean, end of mind's wit
a budding hermit, the end that I sought
the burden on my mind is still quite a lot.

***

CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
