Poems and Power: Sept 11

waking

we walk and search

but never arrive.

destination foggy and far.

doors made of gold?

rivers of endless youth?

trees so ripe with fruit they

overhang into our watery hearts?

if we stay on this journey,

push through monsters

under the bed, free falling that

jolts you awake, houses burning,

frozen limbs while chased,

teeth falling out of mouths

into palms of hands.

if we keep going,

will we find those golden doors?

bite into the fruit —

let the juice pour

from our lips?

or, will the waking turn us

to salt for gazing

at what isn’t ours

before we ever arrive.

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