Poet on a spot that is the horizon for those far away

A mouthful of sea makes you
throw all roses aboard
Towards the horizon
Towards new-born continents

Your face, an alter of diamonds
sparks of sun and salt
immersing with anthems
into the horizon of now

Continents can be stains
in the walls of a shed
You kneel down to kiss
silent flies of last year

Don't listen to them, never
park your boat in the shore
when your blood desires
to be seahealed

They label water H2O
and call it transparent
while the sea you sale
is bright as CTA

Call to action buttons
of your inner landing page
roaring pulsating blue
the sea surrounding you

A lost teen in 1999
since then your ship
was always out of place
but never out of time

Ask Tomas Tranströmer
He will surely ask Sappho
they drink wine each night
on your sunset flaming deck

They agree that stains
are maps of continents
while continents are buttons
CTA:s waiting for your click