deepundergroundpoetry.com
The White Tide
I saw far, far away, across a vast distance.
There was sweet grass and trees.
There was a shadowy entity;
I could not focus on what it was, so I looked away.
In a boxed room
there was a white tide undreamt;
it was there resting as a state of mind.
I studied the outside world in movement,
scanning the significance;
steadfast with courage and trembling,
unthinking in modals or dialect,
reacting only to some snow
blossoms that crept in overnight;
swirls of white coming down on me,
everything mixed with confusion;
there was breathing pings of needling magic;
an immensity greater than life.
Clinging to garments, free of inhabitants,
I could never outrun the white tide.
Sweeping over land and sea,
I talk to poetry! I talk to poetry!
The movement was gone momentarily
as it left the vision of vastness
there again in the wake, unannounced
stirring with little speech,
returning suddenly without cause,
it drew the face near, seeing me.
At times I'll write of the white tide. As far back as I can remember there was a white tide. I suffered Macropsia and Micropsia up until I was about 36 years old, but the disorientation was only there when I closed my eyes. I could never talk about it, and in my young mind I named it the white tide. I never wanted to shut my eyes; it was terrifying. The sufferings were concentrated in my childhood, and little by little they lingered away.
There was sweet grass and trees.
There was a shadowy entity;
I could not focus on what it was, so I looked away.
In a boxed room
there was a white tide undreamt;
it was there resting as a state of mind.
I studied the outside world in movement,
scanning the significance;
steadfast with courage and trembling,
unthinking in modals or dialect,
reacting only to some snow
blossoms that crept in overnight;
swirls of white coming down on me,
everything mixed with confusion;
there was breathing pings of needling magic;
an immensity greater than life.
Clinging to garments, free of inhabitants,
I could never outrun the white tide.
Sweeping over land and sea,
I talk to poetry! I talk to poetry!
The movement was gone momentarily
as it left the vision of vastness
there again in the wake, unannounced
stirring with little speech,
returning suddenly without cause,
it drew the face near, seeing me.
At times I'll write of the white tide. As far back as I can remember there was a white tide. I suffered Macropsia and Micropsia up until I was about 36 years old, but the disorientation was only there when I closed my eyes. I could never talk about it, and in my young mind I named it the white tide. I never wanted to shut my eyes; it was terrifying. The sufferings were concentrated in my childhood, and little by little they lingered away.
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