Protected Rhythms

I’m trying to be an open book, but I’ll leave blank pages to keep even myself guessing.
It’s where the words turn themselves into oceans and then into waves.
I feel so far from the shore.
I’m floating on all of my timorous thoughts, and boats full of metaphors drop their anchors.
I can feel the tug of the moon, and I hear its sweet whisper to guide.
All I would really rather do is pull down the sheet of stars.
So I pull down the sheet of stars.
I begin to drown in all the brightness; each inconsistency becomes white noise.
I start to climb the stars like stairs.
The moon’s whisper turns into a scream and I’m screaming back.
My screams start pushing me back, and I land on a mattress of metaphors.
I find a comfort in mismatched words.
I remove all of my blank pages
Only to begin filling them up with thirty-thousand mismatched thoughts.
As the boat lightens and the waves begin to calm,
I pull the anchor and begin the watery trail that the moon whispered out.
I’m floating in words.
I’m rowing in reason.

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