Your face shimmered below the surface, he thought to no one but himself. Like once forgotten reflections of my past. But mere memories can not carry us to the land o'er the sea. They hold no substance; no matter can be contained within their confines.
The icy, steel prison of the ego had grappled him and tossed him about; much like the lapping waves. Afraid was he when those waves would cease to be. Only then would curiosity seize his heart and mind.
Curiosity is a malady meant solely for the conscious fool. Those arrogant with knowledge, and filled with untold trickery and deceit. This is all fine and dandy, but it also is bedded with the guilt of being beside-the-fact.
Once the waves were no more, he would clamber down from his boat. Which was not a boat in the usual sense, but rather an over-sized coffin fashioned from toothpicks and ancient, spongy gum. The gum had gone all spongy from the years spent on the sea. Despite his vessel's short-comings, the sailor carried on.
Destination: an island for the soul. He had picked a name. Isla del Sol. He dreaded the literal translation (Isla para la Alma) and had settled on a figurative instead. "The Island of the Sun". Sun, referring to the Son with subtle reference and reflection of the Holy Spirit, and, finally, resorting back to the soul. The sun is the son of the soul. Or, something or other.
My brain is being fried, he thought to no one but himself...and the son. He, the son, had joined him on the last leg of his journey. He was not much company and the company he did keep was indulgent and rude. Chewing the last of this man's gum and dipping his smokes into the sea, the company was more like a trick than a treat. A delusion constructed by an over-bearing son.
The sun of manna rains down upon the burnt shoulders of my lovers' soul.
The Journey is over, time to roll home.
The icy, steel prison of the ego had grappled him and tossed him about; much like the lapping waves. Afraid was he when those waves would cease to be. Only then would curiosity seize his heart and mind.
Curiosity is a malady meant solely for the conscious fool. Those arrogant with knowledge, and filled with untold trickery and deceit. This is all fine and dandy, but it also is bedded with the guilt of being beside-the-fact.
Once the waves were no more, he would clamber down from his boat. Which was not a boat in the usual sense, but rather an over-sized coffin fashioned from toothpicks and ancient, spongy gum. The gum had gone all spongy from the years spent on the sea. Despite his vessel's short-comings, the sailor carried on.
Destination: an island for the soul. He had picked a name. Isla del Sol. He dreaded the literal translation (Isla para la Alma) and had settled on a figurative instead. "The Island of the Sun". Sun, referring to the Son with subtle reference and reflection of the Holy Spirit, and, finally, resorting back to the soul. The sun is the son of the soul. Or, something or other.
My brain is being fried, he thought to no one but himself...and the son. He, the son, had joined him on the last leg of his journey. He was not much company and the company he did keep was indulgent and rude. Chewing the last of this man's gum and dipping his smokes into the sea, the company was more like a trick than a treat. A delusion constructed by an over-bearing son.
The sun of manna rains down upon the burnt shoulders of my lovers' soul.
The Journey is over, time to roll home.
