among the shifting dunes of salt and foam

realities fade into dreams, and visions coalesce

into solid forms

i am a shepherd, and

the waves are my sheep

but

to sail, to journey

also makes me a captain

without a name, no glory

faded from thoughts

the color of air

this is fine

being unthought of is fine

the problem is,

every captain must carry a curse

didn't you know?

perhaps you too are

a captain

mine is, well

mundane

like the common cold

through the shifting dunes of salt and foam

i see a smile, a mirage

the beautiful dream we had

what else is there to say?

i want very little, now

no compensation

no reward

no praise, no pity, 

not even sympathy

what i wish for is

a soft breeze to sweep the leaves

in the mild afternoon at sunset

where my heart used to be

“Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds, and contrary tides... I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.” (Mitchell, D.)