The Speculative Wildnerness

This is a poem I wrote several weeks ago and was extremely disappointed in because it did not convey what I wanted it to. I deleted it in a rage. I later discovered that Blogspot autosaves everything you enter into it, and I found it incomplete. I haven't bothered to edit it or even finish it, because I realise it has no conclusion and that was part of what I was struggling to find with it. I think it stands now as much about the futility of unexpressable emotion and about the feigned attempt at looking for love where you never really felt it. It's also something about my attempts at trying to work certain sets of imagery into my writing and accidentally imbuing some contrary images, which I think itself encapsulates the dyad between expectation and reality.

So here it is, under the original title I gave it which now I think could mean anything (perhaps not entirely related to the poem's content, but more to the feeling to which the lyrics sprung from). The poem's title is "The Speculative Wilderness."

The tide is splashed upon the shore
Which saw the closing of my heart,
Wherein the thought remained no more
of love which could inspire art.

Each frothy bubble, born anew
Bursts or breaks at fresh horizon,
And to air and touches true
Union of unrivalled poison.

And I sit fiercely, perched atop
These rocks which have seen many pairs,
Who felt in themselves no strength to stop
Nor care to count the whys and wheres.

This beach, along the coast it stretches,
For many ones to contemplate
How men and women alike make wretches
Of the loves they cared to half-create

Against the sea I see and saw,
The eyes within the water's blue.
Against the rocks I hoped to paw,
The cracky lips and heart of you.

No nature remains at all consistent,
The beach to forest, and then to desert
They're all but nought within this instant;
Manifest of just desserts.

And wild woods, I look upon
Just as I might have done the shore,
And cannot find alas the one
Who I have been looking for.

He sits acrowd, as one rock,
The one I have misplaced.
And time the fiend, the ticking clock
Makes worry that I've lost a race

For other men on other beaches
Are looking for one not dissimilar to you
And falling away and out of my reaches
Is everything I claimed was true.

So I reach into this endless ocean,
And find myself aloss,
With hope that swimming through emotion
Will return me what I want.

I cry to sirens, "Let the this ship sail!
That mistakes might not repeat",
Your siren song steals away all,
That ever docked before beside this seat.

My voice carries some seven seas:
"Oh cruellest creatures of saltwater,
Release this man! I beg on knees,
As you would a widow's only daughter.
I beg, condede. I bleed, I plead."

And