When I was little
water in the ocean
seemed like peace,
where I came from
where I'm going
and the places between.
But as I grew older
and grasped my mortality,
the ocean became
danger, pain and loss.
I now saw the ocean
as camouflaged death,
and wished that
that sly bandit
wouldn't exist.
I became a
pale, dead, dehydrated
father. Perhaps my
own thirst had
made me return,
or visions from
the past.
These days
I'm back
neither pastor
nor tutor.
Don't delay the festival
continue the horn,
I'm returning back to
where I'll be reborn.
YOU ARE READING
graphic art
Poetry"If one does not understand a person, one tends to regard him as a fool." - Carl Jung
