like Homer vying the unfamiliar waters
until shouts of landfall spill from parched lips,
ready to celebrate my victory
As if there is only patience to overcome,
a certain mitigation to wanting
and never thinking to look at the ground
beneath my feet
You will say as the mystics so mindfully announce,
to be wherever you are,
fully present and alert,
there the pilgrim will find his home
Sadly this does not work for me,
the longing lingers like a burning thing,
scalds my sensibilities over and over
until sorrow is my home
I have arrived human and driven,
to be something I am not,
and to be where I do not want to be,
until the world lays me down at last
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