Wading Out
Tired of the mind stuff.
It's hard to be free
of all those words
that drag behind like a long chain,
clinking in the silence.
Each weighted step leaves evidence,
deep prints beyond the reach
of waves and tide. They stay,
fossilized in stone, stretched back
across time, hanging on
to the heel and added to
by every taken step.
Think of wading out to the line
of breakers, feeling water
burrow into the eardrum,
offering oceans and fathomless
depths where only the light
from exotic creatures punctuate
the dark with their luminescence
pulsing along tentacles or dangled
in front of ferocious mouths.
These are the guardians
of forgetfulness, custodians
of dreamless sleep in which
even words dissolve
and wait in a nowhere
to become something
or nothing at all.
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