Oh sea of stagnation, why does one want to leave the water’s edge,
is it a vain attempt at being carried into the tides of another’s morrow.
Oh limpet of the deep, why look to rhetoric’s of bespoken foil,
a taste surely acquired by eyes adorned with lack of own blood and thunder.
Oh eel of beseeching grace, why be seen as the obvious parasitical standard
by salts of augured elegance that sit shores of individuality, respect and gain.
Oh to dress in fancies is not a crime, but never to be seen as an originator’s warrior may be,
as another’s clothes are always tailored for the eyes of their populations in mind.
Oh smile, where do you come from, for someone attired as you is predominantly a tale
of continual entertainment, compliments standing staircases carpeting desire and fragility.
Oh dear of Grimpen Mire and unrewarding fayre, perhaps fresh winds will release the pains of being here (again), watching, hoping to be set free of heavy chains by these seas of purpose, colour and cerebral exuberance .
Oh sea of Mediocrity, why leave thy water’s edge ?
© Nick Hawkins , all poetry rights reserved 2015