The Book of Weston

The warm waves invite me in. The tide

tugs me away from the world,

into depths unknown. They say

I could drown but I never have.

I always swim back. The world

isn’t so easy to lose. It asserts itself,

ever expanding.

I sink back into the surf, surrender,

slip beneath the structure of logic.

Fear stings my eyes, my tongue,

thoughts of what might lurk below,

but then muffled relief and silence.

The deeper I go, the warmer it gets.

I let the fluid, amniotic, fill my lungs.

Of course I do; it’s mine.

Some people travel the world, gather

experiences. I seem to be built

for expeditions of the soul.

What territory will I map

down here? What living things

will I unearth inside me?

They bubble up, slowly at first,

shy and not quite trusting that

I’m ready to understand them.

They’re right to be suspicious.

First, I question them, superimposing

my reality onto theirs. I hope

they will lead me to a bottom,

a foundation and a fortress,

something ancient I can rest upon.

Once I find it, I hope to share

how to navigate depths to floor.

I’d like to think all oceans meet

via some deep merging tunnel.

What I really want to learn

is how to bring the ocean with me

everywhere, encapsulating

like a liquid cocoon.

I’ll find a way to my floor.

This foundation needs focus.