We long to escape the stings, scrapes and cuts
From the lashes, needles, and continued falls.
We contain many exoduses.
To only have fallen once and from the plunge been trapped a single moment would have been a miracle.
We often find our path narrowed, shortened, come full-stop.
We cling, dig, scramble, tear hair, shout, pace, shudder in place.
We dwell on the enclosed…ever-enclosing space.
The burden stresses… presses.
The failure to leap over the breath of the breach of our hoped-for-outcome anvils our mind.
The burden leaves us panting… gagging.
We draw sketches… blueprints of possible escape routes.
We chalk our days on cement walls.
Each thought leads to failure.
We soon release our hands, collapse… choose to wait out to our fate to its natural end.
Soon our cage transmits a cushion –
Decked in rocks, needles… nails,
Which would pound, prick, pierce, … kill us
With too right, too left, too upward, or downward a turn
But… we can lay on the jagged points and weigh and tread each day evenly and never dare step out
of the day-to-day pace and remember our place.
So we drift our mind from hope
And reluctantly…but willingly take up our rope
We endure without a waited for hope.
… Soon a hand comes. The fingers motion a way.
The hand promises rest from the whipped up whirl of wave-after-wave of woe.
Still, we stand.
Still, we are reluctant to grasp the hand.
We meditate… ponder.
Where could the stretched out appendage have motioned us go?
How are we to know?
Why should we trust the promise of comfort toward a place unknowable?
Why should we follow the unknown guide and the path he says to follow?
Why do we stay here and endure the chain… the whip…
The continued pound of stone-after-stone?
… We are used to it perhaps.
We know the daily pound, prick…pierce to be dealt.
So, we stand and question, moan, question, grown…question.