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Trailflower

August 28, 2012

I admit I watch with some relish from the gutter

you all dancing like puppets, as you are: erratic and egoistic,

ever lost and digging deeper into the recesses

of fog banks with all the ferocities of madmen.

 

I watch from the road as you all squabble like children

with your selves and, forsaken as you are,

careeningly crudely with no tact, unaware

of even the simplest revelations – blinders on, full

throttle down the highway because you’re an accident,

cast out of whatever birthed you and left to Hades,

drunk off the pomegranates and alone, and you know it.

 

But! That you know is self-evidence, even as it hides

in saturation, and that is the ark of the covenant.

 

When fog falls I follow the light,

wary of being the moth but assured

I am merely following myself.

I am starting to know the way but I cannot tell you,

for vanity aside, It is inside – still I can go, and you can follow

if and when you see me. I will be around or on the road, perhaps just off

the trail for a few moments as I list to the flowers

or engage hot-headed with bandits but soon I will return, hopping back

onto the dirty asphault gravel from my jaunt with a half-smile

and the means to an end without one.

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From → Poetry

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