Saturday, December 5, 2015

The breaking of the tape

The breaking of the tape                                                                         

When I cross the line,
I’ll rest from my exertions,

find shelter from the harsh weather –
so they tell me.  I would fly like the wind

but I’m pulling like the others,
a crudely built, two-wheeled cart –

accumulations that tell the story of my journey.
Pausing repeatedly to sort out the merchandise;

to remind myself of who I am. 
Abandon this cart and I would soon

cross the line into a territory
uninhabitable, unimaginable.

Rather than that, I cling for now to my only
home-on-wheels though it veers and bogs,

falsely identifies me,
egregiously hampers my way

toward the breaking of the tape, the rest,
the refuge, the unknown realm and reward.

O child of God, there’s nowhere to go; nowhere
to get to; nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.


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