By the sea
Love not the man of artistry,
the painter of a timid sea,
nor seek to know where words are born.
He keeps to self, his heart forlorn.
For years he stored against the day,
when darkness, on his soul, would prey.,
stored hope and strength that he not lose.
This man is not one you would choose.
A walker on the sands of old.
A gatherer of sunsets, gold.
He is a man with distant eyes.
His soul is that of seagull cries.
He is a man that walks alone.
His hand can never hold your own.
There is more depth to the heart than the mind can comprehend and it only has boundaries when we choose to fence it in.