Holding Pattern


There is treading water.
And then there is lostness
and the bland, depressing
sameness, of everything.

There are bad night’s dreams.
And then there are visions
of the night – in which
one writhes and like
a knotted string snarled
back upon itself one-
finds himself at the
self same starting point.

In the beat
of the drums of the
delirious priest
and the frenzied dance
that is our Faustian pact,
Hope like a stubborn root –
peeks out from between
a rock and a hard place.
And the unwilling lethargy
of a quiescent dawn
is forgotten, as it fades
like the memory of a
quick frolic in the shade
of water side palms dies
in the heat of a
baking desert sun.

But in the rarefied quietness
of our seasons of re-memory
we find – that for all our sweat,
and all our pain, and the make belief
of hope and delirious joy,
we still remain, kept in check
In the self same holding pattern

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