Your promises went punting down that small stream,
Written on that paper boat which you set afloat,
Gave it a gentle push with your right and off it went, on it's way -
Left to fend through smallish rocks and your hand returns
To curl again those curly locks of hair on your head,
The mind underneath morphs in thought at my sojourn.
And from what you say are mountains, that small trickle,
Travels down through forests green, and soon
The trees will feel the tickle, of the driven dew
And clarity up until then unseen.
And from what I like to call motions, slowly
The words written in such minute letters begin
To fade away, the woodland potions dilute the ink,
Almost like the waters most holy, this once creak
Now leads you to abandon your notions, now the future seems bleak -
Now stronger than your ship, now it will sink.
But still I follow it, but I cannot tell
Whether what I am seeking are those sentences,
Now washed away, or that bracing brook,
But it leads me to a well, and I, chasing changing,
Plunged my senses in the bucket, and something I took,
From the very bottom, a wasted page, wrinkled and rage
And sadness and every feeling filled my eyes,
Ranging from every look.
There it was, in my hand, a shrivelled scrap,
I only knew it from the shape,
What you once wrote, what I once thought
Would skim around the sea, my castle's moat,
But now I drape it around my throat, caught
Up finally, with that fluctuation, and I run
To the nearest river, I run to the nearest bridge,
And even with the shifting scarf slipping around my neck,
I still shiver, and then I look over at it, on the very edge,
And I see your face in fabrication, I stretch out my arms
On this different deck, jumping up, down, in
But it's not deep enough to drown in.
