Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Three Poem Drafts

Leucocholy

How small the world is,
and how far;
a million miles away I stand,
a weary endless void between,
and stretch my hand,
and stretch my hand,
and stretch my hand,
again for this,
again for that,
again, again, for this, for that.
As though beneath a heavy sea,
as though one sat a million years,
as though the world became too slow,
as though one's talents went to waste,
again for this,
again for that.
It must be done,
though there is no point,
the only purpose to reach the end,
again for this,
again for that.
Like sorrow without chance for tears,
like boredom without restless need,
like hunger with no taste for food,
like weariness that cannot sleep,
again, again, for this, for that.

Winter Fragment

The water I'll be wadding
into a little ball
constructed and compounded
from the crystals that will fall
like ash from wayward fire,
like dust upon the wind,
like diamonds turned to dancing
that lightly will descend.

On the Road

On the road,
although I journey on my own,
I am never quite alone,
for I know you are out there somewhere
on the road.
I travel up high mountains
and down to lowly valleys,
across the deepest, widest sea,
and wonder if you think of me;
for you are always in my thought.
May your journey be blessed by God
as out there somewhere you go your way
on the road.

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