Fishermen and Sailors

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Strange that you refer to yourself as a boat when we last conversed.

I am picturing the loneliness of an early morning calm.

Your mast  rattling in the calm morning breeze, no destination to steer to.

Is it so bad being unmoored?

You want desperately to find a place to call home yet you reject the one you have.

The one with me in it where we are dancing the same dance,

In unison and quiet understanding that a morning breeze does not mean hurricane.

Not every stir means disaster.

Doors smashed in do not represent an end to openness rather it is a representation of the state of your mind.

A door opened to show what is truly inside you.

Hurt and alone, you are stuck at a place in time. Reliving and retrying conversations between you and your father.

You are sailing,

Fishing for answers,

Looking out into the darkness,

Sleep deprived,

Hearing your father’s voice bellowing in your head,

Even thousands of miles away,

He haunts you.

I am needing to understand that my light shining out into the dark is not meant to bring home the young sailors, the siren call.

I need to turn my light inside me.

I need to tend to my garden, my hearth and let the silence of a morning breeze just be.

I do not need to batten down the hatches.

To prepare for the storm, your storm to bellow and rage.

Not mine.  Never mine.

I am finding it strangely calm, the wake after.

It is yet another day.

It is just a breeze. As simple as the sun rises and the moon sets.

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