Changes Changes


Great dreams of what we could become
became
shove-asides to relentless responsibility.
Survival fights for my affections.
and my affection redirects me toward survival.
Either way, I cannot hear the forest so clearly now.
The wind doesn’t blow so freely through my heart,
clouded.
or full.
and still free
but free to serve forever,
like the master of life
who chose death.
My meditation is failing
at the thought of you.
And I throw dreams on the scale
to decipher my next move.
Am I made for lion’s fields or
for offices?
Should I learn their language,
or keep to mine?
Is this blunt, brass, square, functional poetry
here to stay,
or just a phase?
Who am I becoming in the in between moments of my life?

My hands can lift a box of food to the mouth of the hungry
even if I don’t know the history of the Catholic Church.

This change is like suicide,
and second life.
To be king means to die.
And to die on purpose so that others have life
was the great dream
of a true king.




© by Jarod Osborne, 2006.  ¶ 9:24 PM 1 comments