The Drift King

Flotsam and jetsam cast on the surf's cusp, a paper cup thrown in the thrust of the breeze; wormhole consciousness cut loose and adrift, torn kites snagged in skeletal trees. Sunspots of summertime burned on a map, smoke dissipating, billows of chrome dust; where have I come from, where will I go? the passage of time is the tenderest trap. Old phantom that cannot be tethered or tied, fine grains of sand, restless, ever shifting; no place to belong to or to call home: I am the drift king, the king of drifting. Of who or what I am there is no definition, a tumbleweed heart, a weathervane mind; haywire compass borne in a whirlwind, the key as it clicks in departure's ignition. I am nothing, no one, or everything, someone, chameleonic, yet obvious, depressed yet uplifting, the paradox of travel, conundrum of paralysis; I am the drift king, the king of drifting. Nothing marks my arrival and less my leaving, the pillow where rested my head soon regains form, not the slightest indentation to alibi the existence of a castaway ghost in the eye of the storm. As no one cares enough emotions cannot hold me, each far and new horizon as fresh and young as spring so until the weight of ages crushes black my soul's velocity I will be the king of drifting; I will be the drift king.