. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, November 22, 2010

To The Sea

This is a poem about the voice in the waves, calling from the horizon where the sun is setting. This is a poem about madness - madness and tragedy - which resides in every great sailor.

To the sea
Because it is infinite loneliness
Because it is made of the tears of the thousand broken hearts
Because it does not forgive
Because it will hate me for all the right reasons

To the sea

Because I can leave the land
And all that reminds me of everything I’ve lost

To the sea

Because screaming does nothing in those bottomless depths
Because drowning hurts – in sorrow as in water
Because melancholy ghosts walk along the waves and beckon me overboard
Because the price of my existence is really quite minimal there
And it is expected that one day I might not make it back

To the sea

Where everything is washed away
Where a sky of loose diamonds falls heavy on the water black like some old men
Where insanity tastes like salt
Where thoughts eventually die, or become numb, or become too loud to hear
Where the past is clearly astern afloat in the frothy wake of your passing shadow

To the sea

To the sea
To the sea I will go
Without fail
Because it will always have me


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