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Poem

the coasts are the skin of bodies
that hold secrets like a thousand year-old book--
a language unknown;
lustful and ethereal,
yet earthly all the same.
sunken treasures
and treasures from its womb
will never emerge--
only sparkle for kilometers
and glisten for years
under a thick layer of dust
known as the ocean we know.
it sometimes gifts long-lost rings and dolls,
and it sometimes can't hold back
hostile teeth and dismembered guts.
it is afraid of us and itself,
but we will never be scared
and never be impatient
as the drift along the never-ending sea
is horrendously long
and horrendously arcane, intriguing, and breath-taking.
there aren't always storms,
but the waves sometimes kiss the boat
and the lightning sometimes peeks at the fog below,
wishing it could touch it.
but anything is and will be possible
in something never-ceasing,
because without an end,
there is only a journey
through every feasible thing you could plan,
and every unfeasible thing you can create.

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