I swam to the island to sit on the rocks,
Exploring my physicality
I dissolved into the ocean as salt.
A simple organism awash with instinct,
Riding breakers to the shore.
When my pencil is tied to the mind,
It is stifle and contrived; no moon strung current.
Emotions torment expression and
Dead ends are easily unearthed.
So, to the islands I will go,
There to cultivate passionate uncertainty,
Turn and stride in opposite directions,
Unshackled from corrugated corruptions.
No fear of excommunication or radical peculiarity,
The human pack is easily dealt,
Material ghosts haunting the spirits of the ancients.
I shall sit with the stranded seaweed
And interpret the coming of a bleak autumn noon,
My propositions seem at home in this roaring wind.