Seraphim of Dreams

Late at night the spectral siren postulates
that a ship will crack its hull over the rocks.
Spices, oil, and slaves will all be handled by
the Mercurial Slayer of the Deep Sea.
And the light rotates.
The light has an arm that percolates
the slow undulations in the black.
I watch the nautical lair of beasts, caverns,
and lonely seamen from afar.
My job is to make my rounds.
I let the sea know I am watching.
I let the sea know I am listening.
My tasks have been met.

Open Water
The witching hour has fallen upon the Sabbath.
Nocturnal and restless, the sea is at once stealth
as it is revealing.
The alluring sea can claim many and free many others.
I don't want to take my chances.
Open Water...one shouldn't take their chances.
No one hears you bellow with lungs filled with salt and fluid,
the quotidian treasures of Gaia's aqueous nursery.

The light rotates like a redundant kid with a flashlight.
"Hey kid, you can put down the fucking flashlight already."
Although the light on this massive tower is a lot more steady.
Sometimes I like it when things are entrenched in dependency.
On the other hand, the panoply of sounds from the sea
throws this preference off.
Sometimes I like it when things are off-balance as well.
Chaos and Order: the most romantic relationship known to us.

I have written volumes of poems to ex. lovers watching the
redundant nature of this light.
Unfortunately I burned them after the torturous thoughts
of loneliness got too steep.
No use treading on lost love.
If you swim in your memoirs
too long you become an artifact.
You wake, you sleep, but you live as an apparition.
Remarkably, many people swim in such memories.
But for me my variegated path is one that embraces
the callings of the deep.
The jellyfish...
the dunes miles below...
these are the things that occupy my loneliness.

I once fell asleep and saw an angel dancing in the rotating light.
I am guessing she was an empress in a past life.
Her seraphic soma was like an aura I have never witnessed before.
Disembodied and draped in white satin,
she smiled as I watched.
She seduced me with that smile.
Weightless, insouciant, she just played her heavenly harp like a swan
sweeping across a pond.
She was a tantalizing heir to the throne of Sophia,
an erotic muse of night, and she was strangely detached
from the very nature of things.
When the first rays of sunlight hit my forehead, she disappeared.
I had this dream once.

Now, during this witching hour, this nocturnal slumber in boredom,
I got nothing.
Just this ink, a candle whittled down to the last luminous whisper,
and a mind infected with lonely missives.

I am going to rest my head now and hope that angel comes back.