Will waterfalls of swell soon give me rest?
Or must I ever sink in lakes and streams
which run like blood that never coalesced
and flow from my red eyes’ Arcadian streams.
A swimmer’s arms I had — or so I thought —
until that deadly current washed my flesh;
and all my loving energies did thwart
when I was in its siren weeds enmeshed.
If only reaching hands would pull me clear
I’d fling myself up to those arms with fire.
We’d then be hurled into the stratosphere
evaporating seas with strong desire.
Although I yearn to drown in salty deeps
a dim and glimly hope from Lethe me keeps.
© 2011, Alan Morrison