The Book of Weston

Drifting along this shifting surf,

eroding repetition relentless

like the thoughts that cycle

here or there, it doesn't matter,

I sit crosslegged in my room,

old waves rising up and trembling

from this shell then burned away

by strips of waning afternoon -

the past breaking on the present,

the wide mind bursting out

on these beige walls, the blank horizon.

Memories wash up in words

like seashells bleached bone white

or driftwood tangled and dark

or slimy remains of unnamed feelings.

This ocean has no answers, no still spot.

It produces, destroys, transforms.

Sea foam bubbles burst in its wake,

and time aches.