A name is but a name
Until it rolls on the tongue
As day and night roll in the sky;
A game is but a game
Yet still tolls the bell that wrung
What play and wright attempt to imply.
Rince my face as I float around
And the bubble of my past upon my heart.
Pop goes it, washing away the care
Flowing in weariness of travels far in time,
Too far for such small arms
To reach and grab around.
What have my dreams come to?
What am I to become?
May I still become yet?
Is the world ready to see me now
Or must I wait until sickness breathes it away?
The fabric has been worn to the bone
And so have I, I feel,
Despite the endless call of the sea
Still resonating far within.
Sometimes I can sense under my skin
The timeless threads pulling, giving,
Sails setting under a sun young still,
And other moments the flowers
Of Spring not yet withered
Beginning to falter under the summer breeze.
Must Autumn take this Fall?
As above so below,
As within so without.