Sometimes you must lay the body down
for days
so other parts of you can journey.

Not fluent in the language of eternity, voices in the Square World
will tell you: You're wasting time.

Other voices, meaning well,
may come off as a cacophony of crows.

"You could be doing more with your life."

"Just get over it."

"Your grief is a form of poverty you haven't been willing to trade in yet."

"What's your five-year plan?"

"Pull yourself up by your bootstraps."

"Maybe you should attend a great feast
where the world is made anew each night
by hours of storytelling
until it's no longer time
for any of us to be here."

Best to treat all of this
like a chorus of hungry birds.
I assure you. They fall silent
as soon as the sun goes down.
Then, you can finally enter
the silent healing heat of the ancient dark.

The intoxicated eyes around you aren't any good for this either.

They can't see the soot in yours;
leftover traces from placing everything you ever were
on the Funeral Pyre of Time again.

Sometimes you must lay the body down
for days
so other parts of you can journey.

Trust in the night wandering soul.
The Faithful Mare was with you before.
She will be with you after.
Though trail-weary, and hail-beaten,
she is well-traveled
and knows the way home.


(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: excerpt from "Quiet Friend," from Structures From Silence, Steve Roach

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