UNTO THESE STILLED WAVES

Whirlpool of the mind:
a fiery furnace-
fire-dancing images
refusing to take shape

My god, dying young,
sprouting satanic horns,
failed me, fades out,
His men, those ageless seers,
they reached nowhere
leading demented multitudes:
vicious, vacuous, vainglorious.

Sitting on the shores of time
I wait fishing, my angle
to the waters of immemorial seas
wherein I swam so many lives.
What are those finned giants,
looting away my catch?
They too were my comrades once.

As I lay resting on the sheen of moon
nestling my dreams in limitless skies
down below, they beckon me-
those cloudy branches with earthly roots
where my desperate pals found last exit:
Soar not too high, reach not for the stars,
for you might melt your waxen wings!.

Sweating my way into arid planes
where no dream sprouts life:
Nightmare for a kenophobe.
Back  to my oppressive den
facing shadows long forsaken
its but claustrophobic.
Caught nowhere I am but wind-blown.

Drenched in rains of visions diverse,
timeless rivers of ruminations
where they clash by day in, day out:
those masters of wisdom fathomless-
an intrigued witness, mute, over-awed
by and by desperate, sinking,
I lay afloat on familiar waves.