28 August 2011

Blessed Wrongly Accused

I am still here; I am not what they say.
Threadbare bars make for easy escape.
And so begins the dash at daybreak.
Less said for structure, more for my own integrity,
as well as Sara's sake.

This plan unknown is unfurling into time.
Run faster man, distance this town's bell,
its gaudy chimes. Run for Sara.

God has no time,
for only one, not the other,
is on my side.

What follows me is not an army of cherubs,
but a posse of full-grown ignorance.
Run for Sara.

It is sinful to be an animal like this;
I am the fastest man living.
The trees look at me without faces. I read them:
"You are arriving."

The forest floor is damp quiet with leaves,
& this forest air is abreast to a stench
that I do not wish to breath.
I want the ocean's.
I run for Sara.

Night falls without pause
as pines whisper behind my back
that I've gone nowhere.
Clothes left long ago say otherwise,
as I fly, naked, stark bare.
I run for Sara.

But I am a man-- bone, blood, & flesh.
I have my limits
pushed into the margins.
A godling; anything?
"I run for Sara."
The call is heard.
There is a washing, a light, power either returned or remained.
I run still for Sara.
I've reached the coast.
I've reached what I love most.
I ran for Sara.

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