Milky Potion

I sit by the ocean, where nothing beyond the seaside,
Under the burning sun, perhaps it’s better than being buried inside,
Rehearsed by the wind, I yearn for much more, 
As pale stars twinkle bright in a celestial lore.

Whispers from heavens? No chance to be found, 
Cacophonies echo, the first moments abound. 
Not the prospect named by Lenin, but rather, 
Monastery Donskoy, Russian path of forgotten suffer.

In the depths of my thoughts, dreams within dreams, 
Life within life, like a patchwork of seams. 
I wonder if guilt lingers in shadows of flame, 
Perhaps I still don’t know how to breathe within the inner game.

So, I linger by the ocean, as morning’s beams ascend, 
In this realm where Frogpondians chase the dreams they tend. 
With a jar of milky delight in your hands, 
Perhaps it’s more than love’s relentless, soaring strands. 
Together we shall wander, from the shore to Nazareth’s call, 
Through life’s maze, seeking the depths that enthrall. 
And on the walls, white milky drops on a portrait of red, 
The only treasure left behind, perhaps more than I ever said.