Apr 2017
I buried
my roots
in new-age
spirituality.
It nourished me
with words
like water,
soil
sunshine
and promised
a harvest.
They say
the hand
that points
to the moon,
is not
the moon
and I was thirsty.
My entitlement
told me
I should not
be humbled
by a glass
of water
when what
I desire
is a
spring.
Well the spring
never came
and my
cup became
just another
empty glass.
Now I've
stepped off
my hedonic
treadmill.
My frail
body was
not designed
to withstand
the aches
of running.
I'm a
tall woman,
albeit small.
I was built
to see
the little things
from great heights.
And so it became
my glass of water
turned to wine.
my roots
in new-age
spirituality.
It nourished me
with words
like water,
soil
sunshine
and promised
a harvest.
They say
the hand
that points
to the moon,
is not
the moon
and I was thirsty.
My entitlement
told me
I should not
be humbled
by a glass
of water
when what
I desire
is a
spring.
Well the spring
never came
and my
cup became
just another
empty glass.
Now I've
stepped off
my hedonic
treadmill.
My frail
body was
not designed
to withstand
the aches
of running.
I'm a
tall woman,
albeit small.
I was built
to see
the little things
from great heights.
And so it became
my glass of water
turned to wine.
