Thursday, March 14, 2013

Scars Afterwards


I let go of the wheel for a while
I just had to…
A visitor here I surely had overstayed
My welcome.
And not quite ready to compost into the soil
Like the rusting Pearce-Arrow
Parked deep in Walden Woods,
I let go, dream-like
No brakes, no horn
Downhill and picking up speed.

The crash of course
Was inevitable,
And when I came to
I was living in a yurt
On a stranded mountain side,
In the middle of the unfathomable Pacific.

You don’t get much forgiveness
When you pull up roots and leave,
Not much of a send-off either
I guess that those that had cared
Bought my dog-and-pony show.
Well I sure had.

 But now there is no show,
Just an occasional monologue,
And a lengthy convalescence.

 So the wounds and the scars don’t show-up sometimes
'til much later
When the bruises turn that yellowish-green
And the scabs well up like lava.
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