An artisan journeyed to the lake,
Sat and looked at the rolling waves,
Billows foaming,
Gators rolling,
He’d lumbered lately lacking inspiration,
Having naught to show but beads of perspiration,
So he sat there hoping for some divination,
Maybe talk to God,
Maybe turn his loss,
All around in droves were some water gulls,
Tufts of hyacinth,
Bits of discolored moss,
There was a pier with a couple boats,
And some other folks buried deep in thought,
Other happy people huddled up in throngs,
He turned and looked to the lake's surface,
To a leafy shrub tossing in the deep,
To an anchorman riding out the fury,
Everything disordered, everything in tandem,
For a moment then he forgot his troubles,
He felt a rush of air in his lungs,
Freedom,
Looking up he couldn’t tell how long he’d been sitting here,
The sun was out, horizon clear,
Deep in the water, a fish trying hard but failing,
To escape a gator’s grip,
It all seemed clear now,
The lake’s nothing but a big graveyard,
A wall of blue,
A slab of chill,
The anchormen they ride the waves,
And hope the waters never wake,
The hyacinth beautifies the dark,
The grim, demonic, water grave,
The throngs of peoples look for God,
For inspiration in the foams,
But all that draw’s the devil’s touch,
That instinct running deep at night,
That summons souls to Hades’ arms.
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