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 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;
remind myself 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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