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The Great Wave

Her hair falls

Over the bed in great waves,

Reminiscent of everything,

Hokusai had tried to paint.

It devours bits of the ground,

Like a black and white waterfall,

Just reversed.

The water has turned black,

Off the source it flows from.

So much thought,

so much said,

so much unsaid,

so much grudgingly filled in;

turning out saturated black,

Into the yet untainted white ground,

Of everything it steps into.

It regurgitates,

Some thoughts,

and detaches them carelessly.

Spread across the floor,

Sometimes in indecipherable patterns,

Like a crawling insect,

Mostly unknowably so,

Like art from a confused, exploratory artist.

Light as the wind,

They fly with it,

Mostly under my feet.

And there's that feeling,

of having stepped in something.

As if my feet couldn't be sure,

Of an unsoiled ground to walk on.

They're just as incognizant of the impact,

As is the thought bearer innocent,

In closed eyes of sleep.


Her head has tilted.

It's sliding off the edge.

The waves look even more ravenous,

And the ground is getting consumed,


But surely.

Should I stop it?

Maybe just drag her back

To safer grounds.

But I'm curious,

To see a third color.

Can waves of hair, crash?

Of the great wave and all that it washes away.

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