Why do mariners blow kisses through deadly, desirous storms?
Narratives are always dripping dreams, mantras for damsels and maidens timidly indexed and awaiting content at wharfed bays.
Imagination can ride any vessel patterned by men who love the sea. Husky moods, courageous tones and an aire of mispronunced words, salted by the taste of the ocean fauna.
Hue was his name, illustrated by treasures unearthed, a collateral of rainbows along a stretch of false impressions.
So often, romantic destinies are paraphrased thru delusional transformation and mystical recurrences.
There are no landscapes between emotions and seduction, only water. Becoming a mermaid is a cheap tradeoff from onshore to offshore into the arms of the open sea. Any hopeful maiden like “me” would honor the vow of compatibility with designer coral reefs”.
But, his sea-filled heart was boastful, a curdling deceit of crushing rip tides, unscrupulously lusting for squirmy slimey urchins, leeches and eels.
Let me exclaim, he was painfully “X’d” and scarlet tempera seeped from the outlines of my freezing rage. Sure, I was out-of-character, and even more so when revenge met the challenges of many short-lived thrills. They were edited in a quandary of trenching sequences. And, I spelled each one of them “out”, one-by-one.
Never no more a commodore, nor a lifeguard, or any surfers; no fisherman of illusory flights nor harnessings of skippered boat captains from erie canals whose grimaces freckled like stories of pirates.
As you may have concluded, I was lured by this series wannabe special characters, who were unauthored and who were writing their own adventures.
Now here I am, a breathless muse, subsiding, twirling in an ocean upstream, then downstream cringing amongst the clamors of glassy, gritty, grainy confetti, pearls and seashells. Then, a hurl of dips bottles me afloat. Why do winds of an abusive ocean keep reaching out for me, like the hands of mad men? Oh how badly I want to get to the mainstream of solid land, ship-to-shore.
A rush of drowning memories pour from the left side of my incoherent heartbreaks. My liquidated silhouette splatters allover the shorelines of an awakening sunset. I am an undefined wet scribble. That is, until the season’s gentle solstice trace the lines of my origin. Alas, I am recaptured. No plans, would I ever have to contact any of those thematic characters, even with small letters. And, at this point, I have decided that all of my scripts should be cached, and in “ALL CAPITAL$”. Yes, I had finally reached the “BANKS”. It was here that a longshoreman messaged his love directly onto my keyboard. I was his “Type”. And, it was poetry published.
Vigils of fluttering seagulls, swallows and yearlings with contrasting pelican croonings, plumaged into the skies above the pages of the open sea.
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