Jul 29, 2017

The holes in our worn-out shoes




Our demons are old tight skin, we refuse to shed.

I want to grasp meaning, depth, a wise silence but it is always lost in

continuous moments of haste, empty talk, or frustration.

I want to understand, but I have no patience,

I stumble in such painful falls, believing I have control.

When I cry, and suffer, and callout in despair why is this happening to me?

I see a tree, not even trying to block the wind, but letting it through.

I meet my sister, who tells me of her lavish vacation plans.

I offer to drive her to the airport. We don’t talk of our grief;

my livelihood predicament, her brooding for a child;

The holes in our worn-out shoes.

She, secretly wishing for my chains,

I, secretly wishing for hers.

Why does life continue to laugh at us?