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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