The Moya View

Waiting for the Hungry Ocean


I am oxygen for you are the sky.


We exist only

because rain has formed the sea.


Our memory is buried

in every tide.


Its waters swim inside

the roots of our blood.


The fluid of our language,

rippling stories in the school of words.


The bits of dreaming

are collected in clay pots.


Our thoughts are birds skittering

in the branches above the swirl.


Existence is the milky fish eyes

floating lifeless on the ocean’s surface.


Our kisses evaporate in the air,

not even dripping onto the

silent sea life nor sinking into the marl.


Our love is a bowl of feathers

waiting to form flight.


Until then are only meaning

waits in the icebox for the oven to warm.


Underwater, famished mermaids are eager to eat

the dreams and hopes of our sated angels.





One response to “Waiting for the Hungry Ocean”

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