A thousand seas I have crossed
from the top of the glimmering wave
all the way down
to the self-denigration,
to the slow trickling
of non-identification.
Were it not for the spilled blood,
for these arcane clots
of withered cinnabar,
I would not have to mirror myself,
now,
in the shame of the Cross.
I
am the fast wooden ship.
The canvas stretched inside me,
cargo of mimosa scents stowed,
sailing off
towards the Unknown.
My fearless breath.
My sharpened sword.
My tear for hire.
Who is the Wind?
Who the Horizon?
Who the Path of the stars?
One day?
One night?
Enchantments of awakening?
Flyeth a seagull?
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