WHAT I DID
I took to carrying blood and ashes, guns and butter,
leafs and bark. I took to hiding out behind boulders
and walls. I wanted just never to be seen at all.
Why? You may rightly ask? Because I want no
field, no house nor hovel. I want no brother
nor sister nor shovel. I wish to be left at the top
of yon hill - bunkered and sagacious though
unbroken, not bound. I want to be the flight
in your fleeing. Let me light the fires of my
mind with only the matches I first make -
the tinder and the kindle, the shards and
the shavings. All these things - I know
at least - will ever cheer me on. I am
the hermit in the thrush hut, the old
man, lying buried, at the top of
the unmarked hill.
No comments:
Post a Comment