Pockets of light
illuminate the shore:
day submitting to dark
I trace the lines
of our passage
remembering
How winds and tides
shaped us; how carelessly
we wasted time…
Danced around
our solitudes –
imitating intimacy
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Even in togetherness there is distance.
I am alone.
A central figure, distracted,
aiming for contact –
unable to eviscerate control –
repeatedly producing a singular confusion.
Define success…
Is it the one on top,
the know-it-all,
or are these the mechanisms
of estrangement?
I am unable to discern –
stability never more than a dalliance.
The pavement ahead whispers
promises of a sense of belonging,
can I tolerate the quest?
Unfulfilled, I am protective,
fear off-shoots of depression,
shield tender inner places…
bring on change, there are others
watching, looking to me
as an example.
I can do it, on their behalf.
Never alone.
Always distances to cross.
Lust ignores warning signals,
fancies itself a savvy consumer,
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.
Loneliness – near-sighted – shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient,
and patience is the key to harmony.
Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
disabled, regressing into insanity;
nor is it initiated by determination,
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion,
misinterpreting openings; the path
to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer based passage: no
bargains in the commitment dept.
One Woman's Quest 