Paul Willason Poet Free verse

In These Lines

It's almost dreamlike,
the sun shimmering on the water,
faces passing by, the pier 
hung with flags. I could be 
anyone, tethered to a silver chord
sent out from the yearnings
of a distant mind
deep in sleep.

Or maybe something 
more exotic made up 
of the feathery light leftovers
drifting down from the wake
of a passing angel, 
the whispery float of dust
marking passage to the divine.
Everything seems unreal.

I cannot measure the shape
that contains me, but have become 
what I behold, shimmerings, 
shadows, the reflected images
moving across a window,
the air drunk on the smell
of wattle.

Now can you see 
what I have become -
this vague notion looking
for a way out of a shifting world
to live in the lines of a poem.

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Lin Lane July 24, 2023 at 4:57 AM In your lines I see the imagination of a poet who has wandered far and wide into the depths of his mind, heart, and nature. One who believes in angel dust, shimmering shadows, and the possibility of living within the lines of his poetry. Would that we could, Paul... so would I.

John Lawless July 23, 2023 at 5:33 AM sounds like the muse is plotting a jail break or at least an afternoon soiree with a passing breeze blown cloud. Nicely written Paul Paul Willason July 24, 2023 at 4:16 AM True...however always arrives a little late and the fare short paid by a word or two. I keep trying. Thanks John