Scanning

Mans' is to plant toes in sand,  
unfurl fist from hand, hitch  
to any wave that waves back  
and hope it's foam soul  
consists of nutritious bits and plans.  
Wade and hope for wet walls of fish  
spraying mist that turns    
any dime or dollar ditched for wish to splashes tall and grand.  
Off shore because you miss  
being drenched in droplets  
you once dropped off of    
that insist on flowing along long    
and glistening strands  
to distant lands.  
Hop on and hope you've not been tricked  
by ship or witch,  
hope you've not been wavered    
by the wind of damned.  
Hope you've not shunned sure shores    
for no more than the allure of mirage made blooms    
of blue bliss and dirt, tanned and playing tangible, cropping up atop  
the bottom of ocean skies  
before desolate eyes by which the horizon's scanned.  
False islands, scams,  
sun baked buoys, misguided.  
I don't permiss you to be survived  
by being known as  
having resided to any vibe, dream or tribe that's bland.  
Yours' is not to be tried and made tired by  
high demands, goons or any flash in pan.  
Yours' is to look into a tigers glance    
knowing  
you die, you dance,  
and are  
alive, entranced,  
behind, advanced,  
lanced and bubbling,  
molding, crumbling.  
Take a stride in the sky knowing you'll stumble,  
hold your breath, swim for Hubble.  
Seven sins, seven seas,  
stay slow to hitch or succumb to greed,    
some souls grow stitched with ease,  
still pick any glint you please,  
set sail, but beware any baron breeze..  
and paradise found too easy,  
and float a bottle if you need me