The needs conjured. Stolen. Cast illusions, numberless. Whats in a name? Mine or hers? Still, Leah is, exists. Much as Rachel. Of this I am now certain, of the truth. In the Florida straights I saw a Spanish Galleon in my morning day-dream from where I stood in the seagrass, a toy soldier in my hand. It was a sunny morning in March. All her flags were flying. She was going for the gold, in the imagination of my young mind. To fill her belly with it, at Veracruz. Then return by way of Jamaica, and Cuba, to Seville in Spain again. This made me think of Cortes, and the tracks hed laid for this placid passage. The blood hed spilled. The glory he has won and name, that lives, yet. Conquistador. Which is it you wish? Gold? Or this suns fire of a man plowing the way forward? I was a boy and prayed for the first standing in that sand on Crescent Beach at seventeen. Fire is liquid gold isnt it? Does any of it matter if Leah isnt there to see it, with her weak eyes, or no?
Posted on: Sat, 03 Jan 2015 15:24:07 +0000
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