Tuesday, May 25, 2010

What We Take And Choose To Leave

I walked gently along cushioned streets
Stopping every so often to reach out my hand
For I was blind, in my dreaming
And reckoned the world by touch
Feeling the presence of objects unseen
The imposing mass of a house
The perceptible sway of passing trees
Though seemingly bound for some final end
I was content with the journey

A coastal wind, ocean scented and familiar
Swept me confidently along my path
And in my mind, it was a golden river
Filled with things half forgotten
The sad voices of the past
Swirling in the currents which surrounded me
Permeating so deep it was like a bonding
And in my sudden lucidity, I understood
That no journey is defined by its end

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