Buried Treasure

The sojourn from and to Eden has been filled with unpredictable tidings.
But for the moment it's safe to walk along the sandbar and forget about sales pitches.
For the moment the vista has been deleted of fakes.

Out here with the wind biting you can forget the movie analogies.
Your soul separating from your embodiment but still hovering around you like the blowing sand.
The ocean and sky expanding in synchronicity.
There's realization I'm only a few steps from Eden but not sure in which direction.

On a little Island off shore they're digging for buried treasure.
They hope to find gold plundered from the Americas by the Spaniards and in turn plundered by English pirates,
Creating the capital to jump start the British Empire.

Their theory is that strong currents and hurricane winds drove them into this bay.
There's even speculation that it's not gold, but that Francis Bacon buried some of his more controversial and unpublished works there ,
buried in elaborately engineered shafts preserved in a bath of mercury.
Hiding the evidence to hold off the Ax Man.

Deadly politics tightens up the brain.
I give myself up to the wind and sand and horizon
and an ocean that needs no name.