Wall of Foam

In a wall of foam, 
				I am.

The foam is so elaborate
that its bubbles recreate 
my life in an instant
of scientific bliss.

Pumping out 
of my heart 
			is the foam.

It is the 
loving nature 
of the ocean
			blasting 
into the shore.

			It is 
the one guilty 
of producing
the wall of foam 
out of the past. 

I am sitting 
in a wall
			of foam.

It is lost
memories 
diluting 
the force 
of the ocean
into the vastness 
of imagination
after being pumped
out of my heart.

			Careless, 
I fall into 
the abysm 
that holds 
the walls 
of history.

			I empty 
my crazy mind 
from ridicule facts: 
of pain and of rain, 
so drastically 
that renewal 
takes my place.

Death of the lament
makes entrance 
into my arteries
because
			I am 
the trail of life 
diluting 
into events 
I call facts.

I become 
			aware
of the ocean
that lives
within 
my beats. 

			Pumping 
into my heart
is joy. 

I am the one 
who creates
the foam
			out of truth. 

No more 
sitting,
			only 
giving.

The wall of foam 
			formed
out of my heart
because I was
			the ocean 
blasting 
into my lungs 
unaware 
that my heart
			was always 
living in bliss.