Untitled, as yet

Upon the pier of his salvation lay

His Holy Grail, why tomorrow he’ll wake.

Would that it were a thing, he’d hold forever

 

But elusive as Fortune, fickle as

The heart, it floats like a secret

In a bottle, destined for the shore,

 

Someday. There is virtue in patience and

The Romantic waits at the beach, feeling

The sand between his toes, peering over

 

The horizon for the bottle. He feels

Always the tingling he imagines

That would be when the bottle opens.

 

His heart buoyed by happiness, but skimming

The water’s surface, weightless, full, at

The same time. When his lines in the sand aren’t

 

Washed away, become real. When cold winds no

Longer caress, the Sun doesn’t bite, when

Dawn would be the welcomed unburdening

 

Of yesterday’s pain, and the stars reveal

Themselves, that will be the day. Stood all day

At the pier, braving the heat, his shaking

 

Knees give way, he falls onto the sand,

A cry unheard, asleep or unconscious,

We will not know. But he dreams the most

 

Vivid dreams, the Manna of hope nourishing

Him, pushing him awake. Hours hence, eyelids

Will flutter, limbs shake, hands sweep matted hair,

 

He will stand, gaze at his kingdom of

Oceanic patience, unmoved by all nights

For true seekers will never know defeat.

 

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