This poem is definitely one in process: it started out as an exercise, and then I decided to run with inspiration. You can probably see clearly where that happened. I’ll likely revise this, though I maybe like how we’re in the woods and make a break for relative clarity.
For past traveling,
three years inspired
remote disappearing.
The world in small.
Immersed miles,
alone behind the land,
the shores, the coast
of reality. Harsh,
dwindling pride.
Edge of the cliff,
one way down, you think.
But you can just
turn around. Just turn
around, maybe.
Or take the leap, like
men trying to think
their way to the
ultimate dream.
What does gliding
unlock in your chest?
What has been kept
safe there, growing musty,
loved by silverfish?
Let it go down
the street. See
what it can do.