I know the train is coming and I want to read the schedule. I hear rumors that the convoy going to Feelings will arrive in two years. The five-year expedition to Getting My Brains Back seems unlikely but is often commented on in meetings. Excursions to far off destinations such as Functional and Reasonable have me on my feet in gleeful anticipation. Still I wish for a clear mapping of time. I feel I could leave off worrying about the how of it if only I could be sure of the when. This cavalcade of adventure would be so much more palatable with a well written itinerary.
Sell yourself but not short.
The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night;
the wood is as quiet as she.
Passing no one;
speaking not a word,
she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh.
I long to be just as she,
not silent sentinel,
but living a whist fleet life,
a power unto myself.
What stands between are my hurt feelings
and my longing to be loved.
I can’t blame myself for either,
but work to heal and grow.
Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of;
the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog,
not for hauling on my back.
I will mount up and ride my great round stead,
the night is mine when I am ready
the path is there I know.