Thinking about the old days again
About how I shaped the world with
only assumptions and a pen.
Now, I resist pulling things into parts.
Instead, I marvel at their creation
surrounded by so many starving hearts.
Of all my habits and my fall backs
I never could recover from the cliche
things, the already tread-ed tracks.
But now, I’ve deigned my own way.
And, as simple as that sounds
It’s come at a cost; some kind of back pay.
“I can’t breathe.” I oft hear the words now
Like the restlessness of ten years ago
has returned like a seasonal plow.
Churning over the darker, richer earth
I walk an old path, unabashedly renewed–
uncaring of all Robert Frost’s berth.