I
wish
a hand
would reach me,
pluck the secret sign,
the ten new horses, riding by,
as though a mission to another land is owing.
I must pick up rubbish left behind, fall into place behind the cart that gathers dust
I so want this tale to falter, wait in better times
when purpose is less justified
and tempers not so
likely to
erupt!
I
wish
I could
catch up and
float on currents of
the modern time but I am lost.
The density of day moves on in pain, a package
sent to me toss'd in corn, shorn of color I will need, too starv'd of song to be believed,
aloof from all kindness, care and genuine regard,
absent any voice with trust as
anchor, of knowing
that my tour
will still
be
mine.
