I float around on the sea of my life, tossed driftwood-like,
the current oblivious to my yearning, no direction known.
Every now and then I cling to something seeming solid,
finding only slippery impermanence or impediment towed.

The means to steer falls away weakened by determined opposition.
Crumbled motive flaps like a tattered net curtain in a broken window,
entropy rules, no-one fooled, a fog of dull acceptance drops.
Hope teases, more a siren call, than an invitation into light.

I crave the certainty of ground beneath, of resolution found.
I grieve lapsed dreams, opportunities fallen as leaves in winter.
The chance of a quiet inlet, of warmth and succour is my prayer,
of stillness and peace, as I let go, let go, let me slip into silence.




Francis de Aguilar
Picture Nick Victor

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