Lifes Line

The blue of Melancholia strikes, where alone is like unto dusk, just before a storm passes on the plains... At times where the world seems to spin, caught in the tornadic turmoil that may eventually settle, but often lasts for days.

Ah, to have there someone close, to touch the heart, to mellow the color, making it the perfect blue that melds into the sea creating the circle and bringing order from the chaos; look where you may, the world is the same, the crisp blue of sky and sea a-distant.

To bring this forth, ah, to bring the quietude and calm, to find the peaceful eye of the hurricane, the calm above the storm. How, can you describe?

Caught in the melancholic muse, to write, to describe, but not to wend the way from whence the mood strikes, but to exist in timeless daze, adrift in the storm tossed world, praying for relief, to avoid the reef, to find the calming shore, alee from the windy surf.

Stuck, caught at the line of air and water, the world silences and still, caught upon the doldrums of fates becalmed wiles, waiting, breathing, perspiring, gasping at each sharp smack of wave upon the hull, becalmed upon the mists of life, lost amidst time and space.

Waiting for the line, to lead to life.