Straying

I stood upon the land I had persistently conquered
Proudly preaching to the shrinking crowd
Of youth, of truth, of lies, of age
But the years grew old, and my people fled

The spoken word is a living beast
it feasts upon the mind, the soul, the heart
But the ground I had earned, I found
was not ground at all but a full-rigged ship alive

Off, off and away from all things certain and safe
from all rolling tongues, chewing jaws and molding minds
To a place not new, but changed and changing yet
if not there to, then may I stray 'til straying breeds fertile soil

Oh me, that climbed this animated rock
I hope, I wish to be laid here once
Entwined with the flesh of an ever beating heart
so that I may be wed to chance, and not ever settle down.

To Those Who Struggle

The wind roars in the sunset. How often do you fear it, or even notice it, where you lie and ponder in your nook? Was the day to your satisfaction, did you get a lot done? Come now, do you really think the storm cares about the breadth of your brim?
       It rains every night. The drops heavy with grief pounds harder and stronger against your sealed, locked house. You live in the wild, but dare not step outside your garden. The teeth of those hiding outside, drips of hunger and excitement. This thought has hunted you since the days you were young. Oh, the days you were young, when your own strength and power never failed you, and pure determined will floated in the veins that now thick blood runs through. You learned all of those things, until you couldn't fit in yourself anymore.
      Still, being me watching you, is not that bad. You have chosen to live where everybody else lives, it's bound to be crammed and hard to breathe, hard to think- didn't you realize? What were you thinking? How would your brilliant mind fit in there, and what would it do with so little ground to till and harvest? You wailed, screamed and chewed on the bars that kept you locked out from the world you so desperately longed to belong to. You looked around, asking everyone you met for help. You even asked those you couldn't see, who never ever gave you any answers. What you can not see wastes away and passes the world as a soft, fresh breeze, but those who forget can not know that.
         Your young mind grew old, withered and you finally stepped inside those doors used too often, and turned your back once and for all,  on everything you could have been . I sigh and see you sit and sway in your corner. I can see your hair braided with silver strings of age and your eyes, yellowish like old paper. I can hear the rust in your muscles and the crowd in your head. I cannot make out one word of what they're saying, even less what you are saying. How long have you struggled to get your thoughts heard, to make others say what you're thinking so that someone will hear?

Some never take the chance. Some wait for death, wait until it throws them over and pulls its' veil over the thoughts that once were theirs. There is a veil that covers all in darkness, a veil that cries out to the world: "come, come! here you will grow, come! This house is empty, abandoned, open to all! Come now and knock down walls and raise the roof". 

Some wait for death before they let the worlds grow inside them, and the ones that live freely and wildly dance up to their graves and read not "here lie those who lived", but "here lies death".