Monday, January 24, 2011

Desperate Wanderlust

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song, "Going the Distance," #17 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I have a horse called Desperate Wanderlust.
I ride him bareback.
He's not exactly the kind of horse you can saddle,
though sometimes he lets me guide him;
mostly he just runs and runs.
I am convinced we are trying to find the outmost reaches
of grace's wastelands
but we never get there,
I just become extremely tired
sick, even,
so we go back home, where I wrap myself
in the thickest comforter I can find
and sleep until I feel better.
The horse doesn't get tired;
I don't even think he rests.
He just huffs and paces impatiently in his pen.
He can be distracted by small domestic things,
-for long-ish periods of time, even-
A sugar cube, A quilt on his back,
new hay, the melody of wind chimes on a porch
in the late afternoon-
but these are just distractions.
It occurs to me that grace has no wastelands-
that all I do is exhaust myself with the effort I put into finding them,
that I am safe here,
and that warmth is a pleasant feeling.
But then Desperate Wanderlust starts to whinny,
and I start to itch...


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