Archeologists of Our Inner Child

Of all the languages we claim,

Our existence sings in a frequency we choose to ignore.

Listen closely,

You'll find it in waves that became dunes.

In eroded cliffs and tree rings.

Vessels, adrift

Abandoning our anchor in the slipstream of the self,

Letting the gales of wrath pin us

Pebbles skimming empty lakes,

Frantically avoiding the plunge

Into realms of silhouettes, of forgotten ores.

Becoming archaeologists of our inner child

Unsure how to map a ghost

Onto ageing flesh and brittle bones

Sailing our seas, as if the surface is all to witness;

Never truly diving into the marrow.

Until the depths give way...