Solitude is a bridge.
I clutch the railing and can see
a panorama of worlds—
the ancient child
the youthful vigilante
the compliant adult
the manifested—
I, on my bridge, pad about in the middle.
Well: not in the middle;
I’m removed from it all,
on this bridge that holds
only me and my mind palace,
no coherent reference point;
just my hands around the railing
and the sea below
which tosses and froths
where I cannot go.
Could I be akin to the sea?
Fluid in being and unexpected in candor;
but stable, as a whole. Stability, which is
only sometimes stable.
My bridge won’t collapse
but I might. As I tighten my palms
around the steel bar
it gives way too—
for nothing is solid.
We are all solitary.
Here objective is
possible; permissible, even,
but hopelessly contradictory
for in this sort of objectiveness
is complete subjection. So
I take the time
the time it takes
to learn my bridge.
To construct my own towers
untamed
by taller towers
more impressive.
In the midst of construction
I learn how
to know my oppressors
and remind myself that
oppression has no hold here;
except when it does,
when it’s projected upon my bridge
like a drive-in movie
I can’t help but watch
mouth-agape.
And from my railing
I’ll see the power cord
and watch, perplexed, as my hand
wraps around the thick stem
and jerks it away,
letting it fall to the candor sea.
Thusly shall
I reclaim control—
and so leave my bridge
to rejoin the worlds
to mark my fare amongst the others,
to see if candor really wins,
if stability exists. I’m not
always convinced.
Nor do I need to be.
That’s what my bridge is for
to which I shall return
inevitably.
Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
Please listen to and read the work of a talented writer.
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You are amazing. Amazing written and verbal poetry.
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Beautiful poem and reading
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Thank you!
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