Sharman Poems

Something

I would like to find something, perhaps
a metaphor or a simile that would surprise
and cut through the torpor, some volt laden
charge of insight to jolt a nerve or to set
a synapse off into a spasm.

I would even settle for the last dying
embers of a vision left smoldering 
by a Prophet or a Sharman high on fungi,
to cradle and bring back a spark to light
the dark pit of a numbing indifference.

But the evening washes out almost
to the point of exhaustion as I picture
seaweed endlessly clawing at rocks
like the fingers of a drowning soul,
senseless, disconnected, yet unable to let go.
Then this.