I had booked your
Inside passage,
Billed as having
Window and doors,
Sunlight and balconies
With views.
Rolling clouds might
Gather across the
Trackless waves,
Overtake and threaten
To push us windward,
But they would pass.
Your inside passage became
A maze,
Fun house mirrors,
Dead ends,
And lies.
I left you sitting
On your fence,
Muttering something
About independence,
And self-reliance,
And failure.
Time has left you
Bow-legged,
Perched on your fence
In disillusionment,
Muttering something about
Impending death, regrets,
And reconciliation.
I have gathered my
Army,
We circle as always,
Gazing through windows,
And doors,
Together.
Categories: Poetry