The tip of the Iceberg

I am undemonstrative,

just that at times.

Not frozen totally, not rooted,

but moving with immense power.

I Iceberg into which glides your warmer current.

The signs, above surface

are not all, by far.

Great treasures, Imbedded

in the mass

of my passionate advance,

they jut out a little.

Perhaps you observe, not enough

to late, for us to collide,

grinding heavily with resonant groans.

For it seems charted,

courses set, safe.

In your watery locker, mermaid boudoir

hints of nibbling saltiness,

caressing lips, tantalising,

dangling asides, fish shimmer.

Hooked, not hooked?

Cast offs, we may see.

Sail left hanging, without its needed gust.

Just the lull, before the storm,

or a fair wind, bracing two drifters

for adventure, not quite foretold?

Everything has it’s melting point.

Even in the darkest bottom trenches

protruberent sulfurous stacks seethe

and outplume the devil’s garden ornamentation, lustly.

Call me, siren,

with those seaweed colours glistening

on and around your brow.

Shall I steer a course,

with more reckless abandon

than ever logged by this captain?

Ships in the night they say.

and remember, not just bright flags by day,

But take your soundings this night,

set your watch, be keen, for signs

from the bottomless depths,

that abound.


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