On good days I tell myself it’s a way to wash it all away and get a clean slate, and on bad days I try not to speak at all, to avoid drowning in my rush for some peace.

I’m beginning to see how it is

That the sea, so full to its brim,

So overflowing with creatures,

The very blossom of life, can feel

Blank, like the pallet of stars

Our God saw fit to place

Where we can never hope to reach.

 

Inside we hold a universe untold,

The light, hidden as unlit torches,

The bearers our hearts, our brothers

And sisters the sparks to catch

Our very souls on fire.

 

How does an Ocean wash itself clean?

The water flows with the Moon,

That mirror blush from a luminous star,

And clashes against hard creation.

Together, thus does earth turn to lemon sand

And the ocean spray become cerulean tears.

Now, how does the soul burn away sin?

Set out a heart, so that it may too

Someday become as forgiving

As the delicate cinders that become

The ashes, taken by a wind

To become the soot for another;

In that we see how our brothers

And sisters are the very soil

In which our own timbers take root.

 

Still, the Sea is not always against the shore,

As the heart is not always open

To the gentle embers of others.

In that sense, one can see how

Being in an endless ocean can seem

Blank.

The depths await for cleansing,

A steady touch from mother Gaia

To let them know it’s okay to cry.

My soul stands and waits

On an edge, the last glass step

Towards the fiery stars that remain

Just beyond my reach.

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