Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.


Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.

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