One Feather

Time to spread

The vines,

See the Truth

That lies

Behind them.

Please,

Read between

These lines

I write

In silence.

Life is incredible,

Vibrant.

You needn’t fight this.

I couldn’t see that

As a nihilist.

My lungs were sealed with tightness.

I was living in

A jungle of violence,

Puzzled so I huddled in the highlands,

Snuggled up

In my little bungalow.

I would never know

That I could find

A better home

If I hadn’t climbed up high,

To prove to my tired eyes

That such a sight

Was truly real and alive.

If I hadn’t happened to pass through

A tulip avenue with an attitude of zeal

So I could feel the last enrapturing

Snow-capped

Stones thrown boldly into my heels …

Upon that island of bones at last,

In the beguiling quiet of the night,

I would not have smiled admiringly at the sky,

with a thousand lightyears in every stride,

As I followed the only path

I could surmise

And traveled

As the crow flies.

Perhaps we would both rest

Upon nested thrones,

I thought,

And that sounded quite alright.

If I had not demanded

that I give that path a chance

In spite of immobilizing fright,

I would not dance

And I would not

See the sunrise

And it’s light upon a new horizon.

And, there, I would never scream :

“To the mountains

we go!

And then the moon!”

That would certainly have been

A tragedy for me.

Would it not be

For you?

Here I sit now,

Honing

My passion,

Writing slowly

And knowing …

Or supposing …

I’m only

Close to God

If I ask Him

For Truth

But I feel like a fluke.

Perhaps the moon is even a

Comfort zone too

From a wider view.

I’m still so far,

Forgetting to follow

My heart,

So much so,

That when adventure calls,

I feel too small

To start.

So I read between

These lines again,

Remember these better times and

I come to find then

That it’s okay to

Have needs

And reprieve myself

Occasionally

When

The seeds that you sow

Are hesitant

To grow.

It’s okay to feel like a whelp

Sometimes

For taking a detour

Through HELL

And being pelted

By a pile of ash

Where The West Nile is magma,

hands melting yet

not understanding

Why they can’t write the next stanza.

You drag a

Steaming skeleton out

When you scream

And shout

Your dreams

Aloud

Yet neglect

Those needs

For speed

As you leave

This house of blackened leaves,

Knowing you

Can never sleep

When fleeting streams

Of passion

Retreat

Like rivers

Receding,

Always drying out.

Feeling

Is

Lost,

A

Dead

Dream,

Tossed in a

Wishing well.

But I wish you well,

Fellow

Yellow-Fevered

Dreamer.

By nature,

We understand

Our journey’s

In our hands

And we must keep them active

If we can.

Although the pain

Whispers vain

Goals in our

Ears, we will

Strain to hear

Them,

Fear them

Maybe,

Never want

To come near

Them

Maybe.

On the darkest night,

However,

Though a bird may lose

One feather

And we may question if

It’s altogether

The same,

The bird will bathe

In the light of the moon

And the stars

And even the cars

Of humans.

You’d assume

In the humid

Night,

The bird

Would be disturbed

By the absurdity

Of humans,

Swerving

Around turns,

Hardly averting

The undeserving bird,

And almost hurting her

Permanently.

Perhaps she’d think

“The worms I eat

Are to be

The worms in me

If they keep this up.”

But the bird

Is quite free

And the fear

Is

Now lost

In potentiality.

(2/2/2020)