![[Literae]](/images/literae.jpg)
poetry, prose, and other strings of words · 1993 - 2003
Rock. Calling.
Number 156
May 21, 2001
For so long, sure of the future,
Taken for granted,
A subtle hologram slipped through these fingers
Of betrayal.
Not from cataclysm—no grand seismic event
Just … small cracks split
Into ravines, only so wide—
Too fearful to leap.
My face dries with the oddest
Tightening of skin…
Of times I've given up the quest—
To find a narrower crossing.
Do I lack faith or … do I
Recognize truth?
And each time I've given up
I find again those dancing
Holograms, treasured baubles—
Can I ever leave them be?
The stones below contemplate the feel of
This cold skin, whilst these fingers
Imagine the bite of the rejecting cliff
Opposite.
There is now a fence, I've waited
Too long—"but only now could I possibly
cross!" (I'd shout at the world in my head).
Is it wood or rock or some sterner stuff?
No matter.
More than that bars my way, for …
I find myself created anew with each moonrise
Is this truly me?
What is left of the boy I once knew?
Pan, you had the life.
Still, O Rock, still it is yours.
Ravines no more, fissures passable, but my
future is no longer my own …