I’m not seeking a final destination. Now, of this I’m sure.
I seek to arrange the most pressing scene in my mind and let go of the outcome, with faith that reality will await me when I return.
Perhaps each scene is joined together by a common thread of seeking to know, exploring where one might next go.
But there are landmines, laid along the way – weak intent of powerful men – frightening us to obey the will of predictability and scientific inquiry.
It’s my own shame I don’t create the moment in time that lingers tentatively on my tongue.
It’s my own demise I’ve not sought to gather my dreams upon this palette and paint canvasses of joy to my heart’s content.
It’s my own failure to admit what I want before the image fades into regretful oblivion.
They may have accepted me if I’d shown them who I am.
They may have loved me had I let them see me all.
They may have helped me should I have at once admitted I needed their help.
I might have sung with joy, risen in harmony, arched at arrival and continued on my journey.