there is nothing here for you.
i cannot give you my astute.
i know you think that there are things that i know,
but they are only your own conjurations;
the things you hope are so.
i am also not your Credence.
i cannot be your Voice.
you do what you do, did, or wanted,
and it was me, yes, who saw your Choice.
but my end of the Bargain was completed
when your end of the Bargain ceased.
saddled, but not ridden, this horse is left here;
and i am the one left cobbled by your defeat.
so, it’s me again, no wonder;
it seems it’s my lovely Root.
to be the decider, the balance,
and the anchor;
holding the Dreams of Others’ dreams yet to come to fruit.
but my own endeavors lynch and spin on my own ways and whims;
Home is just my entitlement, my surrender, and my suspense.
the placements of my finds,
my heirlooms, and Like Kinds,
i don’t find Them.
they’re only reflections in these brief eyes,
and this soul that sighs,
that allows me to Live in this lull.
from oddball to highball,
county fair to couture,
my land is but the sand that moves beneath us all.
and i move in this Spacement that now resides in me;
each facet playing it’s own role.
every position i’ve had always dovetails back,
to murmur my legacy, as it unfolds.
it’s not all of us who get to poosh the sails
of what will Be;
it’s not all of us who can be Pioneers.
nor know our Boundaries,
or glimpse our own echo,
unless we stop to say what we want to hear.