Flowing to the Sea (third try)

Though the exact where of it

has burrowed away,

the diminishing light,

like a tiny bulb nestled

in a frosted glass bowl,

like a glowing egg cradled

by a monstrous hand,

filtered upward through holes

in a black, steel disc,

resembling a hat flattened

by unbearable weight.

The pattern on the lowering clouds overhead,

in focus, then out, circled slowly,

a wheeling constellation hovering

over the wayfarer briefly paused

at the portal opening on a teardrop sky;

an artifact installed ages ago

for the pleasure of people long gone--

size, race and gender unknown.

The traveler passes anonymously by,

crossing mysterious ground,

but caressed in the moment that follows

by warm nocturnals bearing

the scent of untended roses.

Draped in robes swirled by the wind,

but soon to be shed,

the wayfarer comes

to the end of the sands;

stands naked at the edge,

toes drinking the lap

of the primordial sea,

awaiting whatever will come.