“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
― T.S. Eliot,
Worn skin, sloughed to reveal life’s mending.
Stories explore relationship, bring us in,
expand awareness of ephemeral intimate worlds.
Where may we be, unleashed from expectations?
Which sins are nature’s? Evolving from animal
to beast, is this our best?
Hillock play, a school on holiday; Winter is
friendly. Swirls of mystery invite hot drinks,
warming tales. Theatre prevails, ritual of ascent.
Out in the pines, dreaded satire, ceremonies of
rage controlled to focus flame, to burn in shame,
to counter pain for power.
Questions. Questing makes us wise. Resist
hypnotized consent: “Yes, oh great glowering
crowd, yes, Sir Mighty Educator. Your words
stink with deceit under sweet perfumes, narcotics
draining of ability to decline.”
Each “who am I” innocent of irony, ready to
accept and be glad, secreted away for a
better day; listen. Stories safely told safely
hold dream-hidden refugees below surface travails.
Lost in flailing, in crafts lacking integrity, cracking,
leaking, failing to protect.
Sirens devise beauty,
inspiring, drawing upward those myths
seekers of meaning in desperation complete.