The Fisherman Slows Time
Don’t trust the vision.
It’s tainted with haves and have-nots
possibilities lost with the perception of lack
current reality obscured by looking back
the present moment thrown away
by imagining too far forward
What is this place?
the in between...
when muses still speak,
but I hold my hands to my ears and shout “No more!”
Words are not ending wars.
They are leading to the actions that cause 'em.
Whether it be the ones involving thousands,
or the crusades we lead in our own heads.
I want to be done with it!
But self-sabotage is deeply ingrained in this brain of mine
Neural pathways like deep ditches full of casualties,
any new thought challenging the way of suffering
doesn’t make it too far before setting off a land mine
It’s either the time of war
or of sitting with the devastation it leaves behind.
The devastation...
This constant fighting/dwelling
is influencing manifestation.
Dark skies keep me despondent.
Forceful winds keep me ambivalent.
Reoccurring storms remind me of reasons to hold onto the fear.
All of them combined
has me feeling withdrawn.
The fisherman who doesn’t cast his line
but waits in the boat all day long.
As distant as the setting sun,
but before the light completely fades
he takes his eyes off the sky,
rolls to one side
and peers into the vast darkness that is now the lake
to contemplate all the life it takes
to sustain his own.
We may be going to bed hungry,
but we’re going to bed
expecting to wake up again.
(2014)
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