An attempt at describing the indescribable experience of inspiration and poetry writing

It is often said that the mystical happens at the crossroads between time and space
With its crescendo undulations of past, present and future, the beach is exactly that
Walking along the breadth of such on a lazy Sunday morning, you encounter the known
The grainy touch of micro bead stones, sandy to the touch
The shelly capsules of vast underworlds unexplored
And saline airy kisses brushing against your face as you walk on

Often left unsaid is the fact that those unique time-space continuums spring upon you
Reminiscent of African thunderstorms upon the land
But how could they?
Even they fall victim to its mysterious power

And so it happens; your turn awaits and so does it arrive
Pocket of mysticism sucking you in
One minute sturdy land, the next gooey, spinning and comforting all at once
And in that moment an eternity occurs
Flashes of your entire life unfolding before your eyes

And in the distance, a loner.
Smirky smile etched on face, flirty gaze defining eyes
Next to you (s)he appears as suddenly as the dark night descends
You, suffocating, utter one feeble word “Help”
Pursed lips in reply, a kiss on the lips, then a flash of light
Illumination the new order, you peering straight into The Eye
Then, just as suddenly, the vortex is closed
No more goo, no more grime, just you panting breathlessly after a mere walk on the beach.

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