Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Traveller.

Some days
I think these days
are lonely days
where no man's story
is every one's story
no time to dig
the gravity of others
too much living
craving, aching, wanting
we're all so
deep
now, so white
and aware and soft
and autobiographical
that intelligence has given
bleeding birth to bright baby ignorance
while innocence
dangles useless and slop
from the womb
of The Before Time
and tossed aside
the wide eyed wonder
trembles hidden
a secret glint
too afraid to show itself
now
valueless under the scientific sun
a victim of all this evolution
and mourned
only
in the bottomless miseries
of the night's sullen mystery
in liquor's childhood
or sweet lies
woven in blankets of melody
which can only hint now
can no longer expose
or explore the never
never land
of new, of now of
it
and man
my secret wish
from me to you
is to burn myself
so hot
I turn (back) to ash
that you might disperse me
upon jurassic winds
free to find
the feeling of flight
or God or
the meaning of meaning itself
or something as simple
as the distilled essence
of being
everyone's story
not
my
own
and in that place
I might find
that Home
and Road
are
One.


1 comment:

  1. somedays you just got to leap into the afray and hope for the best with a smile, like maybe there was only ever one road

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