A Poet's Desire

I once rode horses that could canter
like a whirlwind, but I never wanted to.
The lackadaisical fluency of drifting
let me get lost in the story of the journey.

Sometimes in slowness I have time to see myself.
Halted ideas sit empty in a train yard where they
were never allowed to travel the tracks.
I let them die there, because some thoughts are too hard.

Missing the beginning when I get the ending;
I wish I could do it over a million more times.
Every book on my shelf looks like a dusty tombstone
for the story that has lived out its life in my heart.

I rush through the words, and lie still in the wake
of the reality I find myself in more often than not.
What a paradox to make haste in love, and to
prolong suffering whenever he sets in.

My idle fascination with all things fantastic
turns the regularities of the day into grayness.
My identity seems to change like the seasons
yet I find that my soul never wavers; I’m still me.

In a cavity somewhere I rest my weary hands.
I happen to feel good, but I also feel lost.
I reflect on my passenger seat mentality.
Every mountain range that’s ever existed has been forced.

To find love is to find the fuel of the stars.
It is to see the world as fantastic, and it is
to gently sway in the warm breeze with stretching fingers.
In the stories of others I dive with my heart.

Turn to the page where the ending never ends.
I left my dreams there, and I hope you find them.
Perhaps I will lay on a sundial forever, but
I hope to do more than tell of the time.