We have eternal ‘monicas that sing.
An icy cloud is growing over the South.
Out of the woods the Sun creates a ring
Though which the river dances in its mouth.
We’ve rowed this dream one hundred times before.
We’re made of the same blood that’s in the stars.
What does it take to sail through the gold door
Back to a life that always has been ours?
The pink clouds are the signal you sent up.
There’s something missing from this story line.
There must be something in that holy cup.
The same as Gilgamesh’s sacred vine.
We dive below that sea on every night
That Tristan oneday sees her sail is white.
©2013 Stephen K. Pickering