Drowned in and by my own devices,
I stand some gray longed Odysseus
Whose sails were never sewn in Ithaca
Set born journey's of the mind, not the muscle.
It remains unclear if I will start,
Or end with the end my saviour.
With such little sand between,
Will I even be able to pass toddle, pass crawl?
One thing this life has provided me,
(Albeit these necessities be dismissed)
Is an inhuman awareness.
Little fear of sand itself, but of its dried complexion.
Had I been sewn to different sand,
Different circumstance,
Hatched to ground not my own.
Then now, no doubt, I'd have succumbed.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC