every other time
i have defined myself by aiming at what i want to be
and then moving towards that.
i have sketched definitions in murky biro
on rumpled pages of my notebooks
and then taken my aim.
i have written long-winded histories
describing the stories i want to unfold
the way i would want others to speak
as they told the story of how i was when i walked in.
i have used evocative words:
"creator" "badass" "gypsy"
to describe what i am, in some cases -
my race and the race
that i run, but also
the way that i want to be, and the navigation of
the path that i want to find.
but now there is no defining
no definition will do
because this is not me sculpting myself again
out of lumps of clay that i pushed back last time
and now am causing to reform.
i'm not even made of clay anymore;
i am not malleable, but stripped raw -
pulled down to the most basic of essences,
and yet i do not know
what that is.
perhaps in time i'll find out,
but for the moment
i don't even know how to try.

the people swarm like ants
that’s what they say, isn’t it?
but they’re not like ants
at all, really.

ants have a purpose, a structure
they scrabble across the pavement as the sun beats down
with a common goal
carrying huge leaves between them
thousands of times their weight

nor are people like wildebeest
who stampede wildly across the plains:
LIONS! RUN!
their purpose is logical
their goal is survival
but people

people swarm in great swarthy swathes
sweating their way through the summer
slipping and
shivering their way through the snow

there are so many of them, and
their goals are so individual
so complex

not for them the ingrained logical processions
not for them the sole desperate stampede away from danger
no.

they have a society
have a culture
and wrapped in the cloaks of their conforms and their norms
they slither through the daylight
take up the space around them
give no heed to how they’re filling it
or who must take it next.

it’s why i like the early mornings
and the late night times
when the world is empty
barren
silent and pure
untainted by the congestion of the day.

And so today I sit and stare
Whilst wondering where I stand
A gypsy child of bright red hair
Far from her family land.
I watch and ponder, sense the wind
The leaves lie at my feet
Serenity I have found here,
Far from the bustling street.
The autumn leaves that grace the earth
By falling softly down
Leave their home trees, find their rebirth
In repose on the ground.
The leaves and I, as kindred friends
So far from knowing home
Are appeased as we comprehend
That we are not alone
For having quit our family trees,
We're closer to our roots
And as wind moves beneath the leaves,
I feel Life underfoot.