The road back to yourself
won’t take you there
if you have shifted locus.
I’ve been trying to find the path home
Searching for a page in a book
when the fingertips only know braille
and the words have worn smooth
and the eyes are blind.
When you are finally able to perceive again
you find
We have ideas about identities
that don’t always match
who we are in the present
yet habit keeps taking us past familiar haunts
is it any wonder we feel
haunted?
I sit in the sauna melting
and my new skin can’t catch up
to the outline of a person
that used to exist
Shifts
beneath the drift of so many thoughts
Words don’t really describe the discombulation
Yet my mind wants to hear my subconscious’s
new location
People that used to mean so much to me
seem distant
as if requiring some outdated version to reckon with
But she has vacated
left no forwarding address
and even if she did
I don’t think I would provide them with such
invalid information
You can talk to me? I think
a little wistfully
and of course it hurts
dreadfully
But lets be honest
we have nothing in common
maybe some trace DNA
Even that
I always felt adopted
And I can’t make myself
squish into your hand me downs anymore
Passed on to a child
who tried to fit in, knew the heirachy
where she was supposed to begin
and end
the ending was the most important part I believe
to them
Not to stray outside the parameters of kin
always to check
for a smile of approval
Turn it over wondering
is this love?
You thought you would teach me a lesson with your silence
Instead I found the lack of a fence
Enlightening
There is something about being beyond the pale
that feels lighter
So
you can have it all
Them
Spin your side
until it becomes three dimensional
perhaps
Most things don’t add up to three though
when they begin with one
and zero doesn’t add up to anything
but a light sort of nothingness
living in this pale skin
that tolerates
sunshine quite well
I’m finding
nevertheless
nothing is wanting
it’s all internal and mine feels like lightning
smells like rain on the wind
these things
are far more comforting
then the sound of phones
that never ring
*photo – mine (as they all are) tree with flood bands – around its trunk – Lake Nuga Nuga. Crisis leave their mark, it is up to us to turn it into art.
