Oceans

Finally I came to regard as sacred the disorder of my mind...
Brett Whiteley

I have this black and sacred book
Spanning the years like an
                                                                          ocean
On opening it, I cast a look
At ideas all set in tidal motion
Drifting out on ebbs of suggestion,
When each day opens like a question

This is the vessel of my want,
The assembled trove of all my
                                                                          fears
The treasured source of all deĢtente,
When the Muse offers nothing and sneers.
These are my words, yet tied to shore –
Unless I can make of them something more.

I adore this chaos, this disorder:
This revelation that oceans
                                                                          have no border.

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