messages in bottles blown
off-course towards a place called home
are, upon the tides and trade winds borne
to drift alone
till dreams of travel
When sail, oar, or propeller
fail to move us on
thoughts of action sound a bleating horn
in a mist that swims
beneath the sea
blurring the shadows of intimacy.
Direction-less, the mind also
uncaring as a jelly fish,
unthought of as an unknown wish
casting off from ignorant bliss,
bound for immor(t)ality.