The Lake House

Look at this dappled white road 

reflecting a tired sun. 

A shimmering, coruscated bridge

connecting shorelines 

to where I sit, reflecting.

Is it a highway to the better 

oblivion in the shade 

of the tree covered cove, 

opposite this dock?

This water ripples with a radio 

wave frequency and I can almost 

hear a song in the soft lapping 

of the relentless repetition.  

It’s too slow to fully perceive. 

Older and more natural 

than the Earth is, I think. 

Earth is really just a word -

A concept that was shaped 

by many hands and mouths. 

A way to package the terrifying 

chaos and overwhelming beauty. 

We tend to fake it till we make it. 

When we could be worshipping that song. 

Walking that highway to a better oblivion. 

Following the bridge over the horizon.

Swimming in the magic.