Monday, August 8, 2016


Not now. Not yet.
Perhaps never.

One day I will open it,
this door,
this message,



Why must it be a gift?
It's not.

In walking innumerable miles,
over such varied terrains,
sometimes so very tired,
and straining to see one, just one


a sentient shelter

a kind of oasis.

And then there is one,
like the last time but different again,
the act of recognition,
and an awkward embrace,
and some muted period of time
possibly a sort of resolved satisfaction-
still far away even when it's close.

And then it's gone,
and that's supposed to be a gift.

Keep going, eyes to the horizon,
look up, look forward,

look within.

It's still here somewhere.

Don't open this. Only tears which will never come.

No comments:

Post a Comment