Who are we - the walk
away type,
the silent yet yearning masses that
want to pull
down
that fence
jump off into
nothing
but cannot find the
strength of
soul to
change course.
All my mother does is
dream.
Places she has wanted to
visit and touch
are only magazine cut outs in
our kitchen
are only whispers and
temptations - I say
I'm better than
that
but I steep in my
own imagination's
trails more
and more these days
wandering to no end.
It can all add up.
A green meadow caught in
fading alpine glow,
his smile,
laughter bigger
than I knew.
When will I take the
path I am already on,
and stop looking for a fork to
lead to far away mountains?
I'll lay down,
on this uneven ground, and
dream into
reality
dream of a life chosen
and walk away no
more.
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