On Tippy Toes, I Await Your Turnaround

In the cleft of the rock,

I’m sitting with a bannered love

over my face. It is dark, fear’s

heavy rope has tied my hands

prayer position Truthfully,

they are wringing with realization.

I can’t let go, do this without a Saviour-

not all my long distance friends, who

have watched my mouth drop low

as a fence knocked low by unsuspecting storm.

Through all these trembling words, starting.

“I don’t-“ abruptly finished by my mother’s promise:

All this will work out. I don’t want this workout

the way everyone wishes. A degree. I want

music soothing my ears, mt feet under blankets,

& my words pouring a child’s plea for Your peace sign

in spite disarray inside my head, outside. I know,

I can’t keep playing pretend, thinking I can become

a writer sitting still, the lucky ones daydream.

Declaring with the author I read as a child,

Nicholas Sparks, this is how we do it.

NYT Bestselling author, world wide acclaim.

There I go, setting myself to fall back down

society’s wormhole. I’m a cactus in this valley,

needled in belief the flow of work will produce

water I desperately crave.

It’s in flux, I find sweetest oil

though I’ve done no mechanical work

for my brow to be wiped. From all sides,

the voices come loud, disguised.

I should be checking, calling.

trying trying trying, taking

this command, rest.

& give myself permission,

Up we go!

But, as everybody else,

I’ll break a glass.

My beating heart will freeze,

along with my breath being held in suspension.

I’ll hang my head. “Daddy, don’t look at me.”

You’ll whisper. Don’t fret. I still love you, child.

Face up, let Me see those blues.

I’ll meet never condemning gaze,

“I belong in Siberia for what I’ve done. Send me now.”

Too cold for you. I’d rather keep you warm. Please stay?”

“A lion’s mouth would scare away the shame.”

Stop talking silly. Love doesn’t work that way.

I’d rather stay in company of long-suffering,

with sorrow holding my right. Your right hand,

my strengthening love when I am stuck, and

counting the seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Passing me by with ending

vowel to my name-

first letter of those

You give concern

over my wandering.

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2 thoughts on “On Tippy Toes, I Await Your Turnaround

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