Poetry

That May Be, 4 (125.)

I may have forgotten
the feeling of water existing around my skin,
and I know the body is mostly water,
but it’s been a while since I got in,
I mean REALLY got in
a body of water
that is not my own.
A pond, a lake, even a pool at this point,
any of these would give me a liquid reminder.
They don’t need to give me courage,
though I tend to lack that in the heroic sense.
In the sense that I
get out of bed and face the subtle stabs of an imbalanced system,
well,
I’m fucking William Wallace at that.
Out of context, that line is pretty hilarious.
Anyway, before I ramble –
to marinate my mind in the liquid of life,
aye,
there’s the rub.
To submerge, and dissolve for a few moments,
to see every atom strung along in my personal nebula,
before I re-converge upon myself
and emerge,
renewed,
with fresh memories
of who I was,
where I have been,
and where I, now, am going.
To flow
into the future,
that’s
the life for me.

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