warmed waters: seeing red but not red

Softly

the moon sighs her heavily

labored breaths
As the tide sings

invitingly
when it dashes the rock

Hands of fires

dig deep
into the warm body of sands
Kneading them gently
gripping them

mass by mass
Feeling each grain
passing through its scorched fingers
Pushing out each strand

of dissipating mounted pain
Fanning and feeding

each sliver
of escaping flame

Grass blades slip by, around
and on ladened palms
As both swim in thick perfumes
of a virgin’s blood
The whisper of the sea
a steadily rhythmic streaming
Likened to the murmurous beats
of a waltzing out march
Each stroke stokes burning caresses

of this siren’s call
The salt ladened hairs mooring
themselves in curves
Etching line by line

the sinewy mounds of the moistened shore

The lapping 

of renewed life comes

Slaps of viscous oil, the sound
of hastily pouted lips

a smack of life's breath of fire

memories
from a faraway shore
sketched in the sands of time
posted in a blink
from between three homes
and homelessness