- Poetry -
There is a stench in my shoes,
a staleness in my coat,
a crust on my skin,
and I lie awake on shifting dunes
measuring my life not in cups of coffee,
but in full moons;
not in the rungs of a ladder climbed,
but in the horizon’s loom.
I don’t know
what I’m trying to become,
and, Muse, I have never appraised myself by the sum
of some bank account,
or how precise I have laid out
the tracks of a plotted, straight life,
but this leaves me standing alone in uncharted
w i l d p l a c e s.
I howl to the darkness of the natural world
and serene indifference whips,
blows through in reply.
Oh! Muse! –
What are we but things that blip alive
in a brief awareness,
and vanishing in rapidity
as brilliant and passing as lightning
that crackles life and light
across a dark, swirling void?
Where do I strike?
What do I conduct this charge of self through?
I am building up static
and dangerous weather patterns,
and I’m raging at the point where
I am searching for a key on a kite
because if I don’t strike soon
I’ll fry myself.
I’ll end my life.
Spin me blindfolded in a field,
and send me on my way.
What better direction could one go?
I carry the vitality of the storm,
the weariness of the road,
the moon in all its forms.
There are railroad ties
to build with and bind,
to guide with certainty
to carry you and all your earthly possessions
in comfort to your predestined goal.
Muse, you and I roam.
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© Alessandra Ragusin 2016-2020