Poem S

Poem S

The story teller.

Met amidst a rainbow,

brigded across the plains.

You had many names.

Many colours, camaflaged

your own being.

You dreamt of stairs and broken hearts

each at every flight, belonging

to everyone.

No one can mend a broken heart

but we ourselves can heal.

Our warmth and beams,

ray out towards each wound

cared for by the world.

We write poetry instead of philosophy

to bring our worlds together,

words are caught by strings of thought.

Rushing in, quickly, thoughts form seas:

seas that make us ponder what may be underneath.

We break in, holding our breaths, to the water.

Our eyes shiver from the cold and salt,

but not to halt we continue. Pressing on,

the navy blue takes a turn to black.

We scrape the bottom, before

we see, lungs cry out in agony.

Ascending forth we praise the air,

the sun, the warmth and light.

Our success and failure all the same

in the pitch submarine darkness.

Nothing meant to mean anything

leads to underwater abscurity.

Then why do we swim underneath, to see

what we cannot, where we cannot see.

That is a question of why we live,

of why we think of why we think.

Our spinning heads in the water form

a wave of curiosity, sends our thoughts

and feelings forth to clash and churn with

other waves made by turbines across the sea.

The storyteller makes such stories

told through the mouth of my own.

Songs are sent to him while

on me he plucks each tune.

No song lasts, all pieces end,

as ink is bound to dry. Just as

seas dry up, we know, though

we tend to deny.