Windswept and tidal games
It seems we move
Under directionless dark guides
Inertial forces in play around us
Unseen and relentless,
A vice-like grip on slipstream currents
Carrying us away like brittle leaves
On dry sand rivers.
The anchor drops and holds
Back remorseless pressure,
Marking a spot upon which we stand
And plan a path of our choosing;
A secret door in time
Firmly fixed with black lock
And golden key.
Down deep the heavy anchor
Persists in light-less certainty;
Ignorant of raging storms above
Doing the thing
That gravity demands;
Embrace the earth
And guide us home.
whoisfenton 