Fifty Four Years of Waiting to Die

Sitting moored at the end of the wharf
languid legs dangling over the ebbing edge
one watches the wide water wane and wax
to another dusky sunset gently falling
with peach eyes diluted to a borrowed gray
gulls coasting softly into mockingjays
shadows hurry to flee starlight calling,
two ships cross the huddled horizon but
no one notices whether their transit turns

The mind cradles its bended knees,
a planetarium of countless fading twinkles
and a lava lamp of blurs and blindspots,
on the long and tiring journey unfurling
whirling with fearful anticipations, yet
on occasion the noctiluca lullaby sings
and brings with it an aurora atmosphere
where the sub-geometry reveals its ties
and belies our asynchronous solitude

Standing to greet the serpent silence
with blacksheep eye upon the barque
never meaning to become this thing
the son of all my beautiful consummations
the outline of a countenance untraced
defiantly surrendering to the ambivalence 
of gravity, an exhale to the bondsman
signals the toll of the final unleashing
and all the convened are left free to wander
away.