Waters Of My Origin Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

IAM
dreamy and
listless after the flight.
And in this subtle
yet conscious
state I yearn
for the stories
told by the old ones
of our living flames
within this enchained
flesh; and the images
pass on something such as
this… to the each of US.
Our lives are rivers
as under the moon
where all becomes well.
And in these calm lazy moments
while all of our mind's walls; faded way
in a consciousness toiling such a great grief
I listened, as trolling wolves howl at midnight
and my lifted spirits move to the mountains in
search of the poets I admire where these better
Word Smythe's than I peruse and discuss all
hastily penned, and bemusing word works
and as each of these works slither on
down to the sea, they are harbouring
the terror of returning to those ancient
vast, salty, and deep; waters of my origin.