An acquired taste.
Some might say,
A desolate place.
Undeniably tranquil
A peaceful sanctuary
Surrounded by blue
A safe haven
Hidden from view.

And, sure,
Vessels may moor
By invitation only
Fleetingly upon the
The golden shore
But staying
Is not an option
Because just maybe,
Extended moorings
Would lead to the
Disconcerting possibility
That island living may
Lose its charm.

And of course
Sleep is uninterrupted
In blissful ignorance
Of what exists beyond
The golden shores
Of the all encompassing
Blue.

Undoubtedly safe
Island living, remains
An acquired taste.