Old Hands by Rippled Sea

ripple1
Inside bouts of
melancholy
he dreams
of fractured
forbidden
sails.

Staring at vacant frames
he draws
your face
as a long,
unending
trail.

Disturbing the current
by dipping his toe into the sea,
he’s reminded that while he is alone,
he is also free.

Now,
imagine your lips upon his unironed face.
When he was young,
it was you he chased.

He is rusted
and his boat brand new
as he left the harbor in search of you.

You rare and poetic thing
The creator of infinite ripples
without you he fears his heart shall remain mum,
crippled.

Whatever he had been before you,
he no longer was.
Sequestered inside long rolling waves is his desire
to find a new cause.

Now it is night,  and he stares at the moon.
It looks as round as a happy belly or as nervy
as a traveling balloon.

Shameless, they flirt in front of him;
the sky and the sea.
As  he haltingly sips his frigid afternoon tea.

With deep hues of purple nearly blue plum and gray
pushing away a blushing gold,
that is not eager to stay.

He wipes his seasoned lips,
permanently contoured to fit yours,
whilst the ocean becomes turbulent,
of that he ignores.

He draws out a sigh whilst he rubs his grizzled, wrinkled hands,
looks to the bending sea
with hope it will wave in a new plan.

ripple 2

 

 

Art & Writing By: Magnolia
he is revived

 

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