writing this poem
is like sprinting
through
wild land
vines and burs
grasping for me,
but i’m already gone
moving like
a dancer
a panther
this immortal being
flying past human
conciseness
till i’m
oh so slowly
consumed
by Those
higher than myself.
when my sight
becomes Theirs
i see the past
as it was
in the beginning
before i
started running
with Them
as one
we ran
and through Their
sight i saw
where i was going
once hidden
by that blood-red mask
of flesh and hate
but They
in Their gentle might
severed the ribbon
that held that
mask to face
and i to that
wild, wild land
with those
vines and burs
grasping, but
alas!
We’re already gone