Explorers of the tundras.
Wanderers of a higher purpose,
Bearing the throes of a million winters,
Carrying the flame as the others retreated within their burrows.
In darkness we see no night.
Deep within nature's deadfall lies another sunrise,
Another day in search of a memory.
Who knows what they'll find?
We soft fingers
on the locked
ready to be open
so, we can explore
the radiant wonders
in the day
on the other side
of this dark night
i stand here with a hole in my chest. someone unearthed the key and dug up all the rest, their grimy hands
scratching and scraping into the dark. Unsure of what they'll find, but they wouldn't mind
leaving the tomb with a few
maybe one or two.
i wish they bagged my soul with them.
it's rusting itself blue.
the cruel irony of preaching love & kindness when it will never happen to you
We are lying together, entwined
As you tell me about that one time
You fell in love with an explorer.
You tell me about how you both lay side by side,
And with eyes wide, she pointed out to you her favorite constellations
As you marked your favorite constellations of freckles
On the wide expanse of her skin.
You tell me about the mountains you have traversed together;
You tell me your relationship was an uphill battle every step of the way-
But with hope for the future,
And then one day,
She got tired of the constant uphill battle.
She got tired of waiting for shooting stars;
She got tired of you.
From then on, your heart was filled with hatred for
adrenaline junkies and explorers.
You, yourself, are an explorer
With huge hopes and dreams
And your heart on your sleeve.
I can see it in the way your eyes sparkle
Whenever there is a hint of adventure;
In the way you give your heart out freely,
Wishing that one of the places you yearn to settle down in
Accepts you with open arms.
(I still pray for the day
When you'll wish to settle here.
But for the time being,
I shall patiently wait for your arrival.)
You were a nomad in all things
and every time you'd roll your caravan to town
holding a backpack and beating your drum
you'd reach out your hand
which could grip like electricity
so we'd set out together
us gypsy lovers
like birds that chase each other on the wind
and we'd **** the world with our charm
intoxicate with our savoir-faire
until the seasons changed
and you realized that howling at the moon
was a one man job
you bit and you scratched until
wailing, I threw you back into the wild
where you could have it all
your solitude and
your precious moon.
Ah, grief changes like seasons. The bitterness has arrived, n'est pas?
We float this concrete river
as trees go about their day around us
Visitors, we are just passing through
to nowhere in particular.
What we seek we may never find
or even recognize.
Still, we paddle on,
subconscious cartographers exploring
every fork we come across
finding our way home.
— The End —