Saturday, April 16, 2011


Sometimes it feels like the core of a golf ball. So incredibly tight and loaded with energy. Just waiting for that perfect swing to send it soaring. The open sky still waiting for gods too old to exist.

Living a life I never asked for. An unrequited journey with occasional windows. Smudgy glimpses of the one I should have had. Puppet strings creating the illusions of choice. I move forward, but the footprints behind me are not mine.

And what is life except a scale to weigh our burdens? A ransom note for mistakes we wish we could take back. Words too stubborn to be spoken or coaxed by poets. I watch the darkness limp away and feel its pain.

Outside, the wind answers questions before they are asked. Anyone can pretend to listen, but few ever know what has been said.

1 comment:

  1. i like the notion of the word too stubborn to be coaxed... an experience i can relate with.

    the sense of despair is palpable in this one... it is well conveyed.