Palms

Falling from an architect's malleable beacon, entranced by the glow of bold insight, a dream but a fiction so seamlessly seeming but a fraction of semblance to ones own light. In the sea is a swelling, a voluptuous wisdom, a grain of the planes a boulder in sand, what is spoken is maybe a tempestuous spell, and in gleaning a tale that nothing was said. I loathe to be flightless and melded with soil, of covetous isles I'm born to be dammed, I'm stranded and sailing, I'm choking on breath, and watching the ending to see where it began. Was the glass made to seek us or our trail home, on the tempest we'll ride and if one of us lasts, will the solitude bring meaning or falter the truth that has already found us in life and in death.