Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself
Passion is a windstorm exhilarating your bare feet into rapid splintered steps
as ocean spills on the deck. A frightful mirage of trees quiver in the murky mist.
Hoist anchor! Abandon solace.
At first sight, it takes you up in its arms; immobile, unmovable.
You have no choice but to put sole to unknown soil. Take off.
Take the cyclone with you. It wants to come but it needs you to go
as sounds like a siren scream, sigh, and lure you to the killing of the
wait — no match for the rocks.
It reminds you of why you set out to sea: you’re alive.
Whenever it whispers its call against raised skin, through tousling hair,
I groan, or, sometimes, I moan but I always tuck it away for safekeeping.
It’s only ever slowed for the plucking of fairy wings. Helplessly, hope dwindles
with the whims of the winds; back and forth,
often false. Then another rush reignites the brush of a bonfire heart.
The last time I lost it, I was convinced Wyoming misplaced its mountain breeze.
Imagine my surprise; one sweep sharpened my claws and I dug into the cliffside.
Desperation lit up my lungs, for where I discovered it roared all along —
quiet wisps until I tended to it, treated as my greatest love.
Thank you for reading. To further support my writing, consider buying me a cup of coffee!