Arrival II

The evening is dull
trees are quiet, unmoving
still, and my mind drifts off
a flat grey thing, like the sea
unable to lap at anything but
memory and the cycles of
restrictions I place my feet in
every day

and the voices pick my space
allow me little peace
and I choose release but the
word hangs there clever and
tight and I can't unravel it
even though the sight of
freedom haunts my eyes -
the sun is always
over the next rise
if my feet will carry me
that far, my heart work
and my hand stay strong

How do we know of wrong done,
intended, gone, yet still
alive in vaults of
memory?  Oh I see so much, so far
my dreams solidify of worth
of works and days
if I can just trace the right
line from here to there
if I can climb my hill
and have the sun shine in
greeting when I get there
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