1 Degree the difference…
Crawling up; straining from under
That heavy load that screams to be born
Fingers bruised; from under nails now bleeding
Crimson eyes by weariness worn:
Twisting, turning, sleepless nights
Scar covered shins reflect the signs:
Life’s journey hampered – did you commit the crime?
Willing winter to finally break
But this ominous silence my solitude makes.
Waiting for the winds to rise
Searching out the changing tides
Pondering each grain of sand
On endless beach shaped by infinite time…
The things you feel are there to remind you
That there’s yet a stop to this endless line.
The mountains high that seem to confine you
Were always meant – in the end – to be climbed.
The sculptors hand holds the power to create
But plans – at best – are fickle and therefore he may break
Though nothing that’s shaped is ever a waste
Like the most fragile of ironies that should bravely be chased.
And so the prodigal son may contest all he wants
The outcome is sure to be painful and harsh.
But contentment may arrive at the very next breath;
His destination reached with the first step he takes.