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Robert L. Martin

Deep Sea Underground

Days of yore when the moon was a
mystic sphere, a quixotic poem for lovers,
a silver private island in the sky
encased in the finest porcelain as
the heads of colossal benevolent ghosts
appeared looking out into deep space
while scanning the Universe,
looking for the lost ships and
drawing the tides up with their tearful eyes,
it was the underground of the upper skies.
 
Now man has felt the moon ground under his feet
that became no longer a poem of lovers,
but a grounding of their imagination,
too familiar to suspend them in the air,
and too heavy to keep them afloat.
 
But under the skies and the earth and the waters
where virgin land is yet virgin territory,
and the fishes are outer-world swimmers
swimming near the floors of the
world of the unseen,
where life is yet a poem for lovers,
we can swoon again and let our imagination
take us to exotic places in our minds
and keep our spirits high with
a poem of the deep sea underground,
penned by the sonneteers
of our hearts.

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