Saturday, September 12, 2015

Stick horse

Stick horse                                                                                                         

I’m bound hands and feet.
Resistance binds me all the more.

Someone shared a photo,
holding it before my eyes –

me as a child on a stick horse galloping
like a pony under the great gray trees.

I wept so hard I thought
I might die but I didn’t.

Imagine somewhere, I am told, other than here;
somehow other than this trussed up existence.

I wonder what good it does, seeing
that I can’t move an eyelash

back towards innocence
nor forward towards liberation.

O child of God, it’s a long journey.
Some days are better than others.

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