seemingly brooding
to the unacquainted eye
another’s speech lost to the
mindless drawl
i’ve tuned monotony to

who knew how torturous
sitting could be

john redding
traveler by sea
upon death
revitalised a breath
inside of me.
a short story
shortly, but surely
kindling a desire
for the waywardness of a
vagabond

enough time has passed
for me to ask
is the process worth it
a second time?
to put a dime to my name,
to put time towards a “greener” path,
presumably.

dissociations of a self
far from home
remains such an enthralling story.

to be content
creeping against closed doors.
the creaking of old floors
entice my senses,
for that i call home.

wholly whole
for the time being.
fleeting feelings
of great esteem,
while shyly gleaning for the one thing
to shift my mood
into existential dread.

what to do, or say
requires convening
with both body and mind
in attendance
present, to ask questions relevant
to one's purpose
to recircuit alignment of the
spiritual and physical

the transmittance of ancestral guidance no longer thwarted by separation
of being

a cynic at best
believing life to be at odds with my purpose
believing life to be a circus
of amateurs mimicking my “greatness”

self-delusion is scary
but so is wasted potential

my compassioned heart
hardened by figments of enemies
out to steal my being, my identity

when it was never in a position to be stolen