And Nothing More

In the beauty of the sea, nothing fantastic I see. Everything, even love, is simple to me. In my soul, I live low since I cannot transcend the door Of who I am, to become what I stand for. To want, be it plenty or plenitude: Too exorbitant to want. Complex feelings are meaningless: to this not be they effortless could, The way all should, as the world does not desire and is still abundant. Describing me, thou say: “A primrose by the river’s brim A yellow rose was to him. And nothing more.” And this is thy answer: “yes, and then you wonder: What does he think about everything? What do I think?...this in my memory is dim. If I were ill, I would have the will to reason the thing I try to ignore.” And nothing more