Refugee

It's not as if

I read fortunes

Or understand the nature

Of being True.

Time is falling -

That's not my fault -

No space for big steps,

There's only enough room

For breathing.

Grasping at feathers,

Fathers and mothers,

Experience flies

In the face of Time.

I might turn to prayer

Or words to chant,

And talk to the trees and birds -

There are solutions there.

But they are busier than I,

And God is, too -

My hope is smothered

By an onslaught of sound.

And in my mouth

I hold only unformulated thoughts -

Some garbled mix of hidden wants

The desires of an unformed creature.

The birds seem True.

Nature is wild with Truth.

And I watch as if in the shadow of a cinema,

Holding onto my seat, afraid to miss out

On the telling part.

I move forward, or at least in place -

Stepping as if with new feet

Made of fresh and sticky clay

I will make the forward motions.

I refuse to march to the pace of Time,

And my rhythm shows this fault.

I fall out of step with what might be called

My fellow travelers.