The Great Moving On

The last
of the bindings
are breaking.

Wrists crossed,
jute-bound windings
rub them raw…

they dig and claw,
into tender skin,
upon the tightening.

Emptiness is frightening.

Of the heart,
of the head,
of the soul,

a dry soup-bowl,
or the lingering scent
of basket-bread,
eaten too long ago.

From that emptiness,

we must fly,
we must be gone,

to the better place,
where these hungry feelings
find growing hope

in such simple things,
like bends in bladed grass,
or the slightest hint
of perfume passing

on gentle breezes,
flowing ‘ever-onward,
toward midnight seas,
where lucky pilgrims
catch drifting scents,

stirred and salted…

newly nourished,
warm and fed,
they call out,

“Hug your shoulders,
dear friends, freezing,
as the saltwater washes!”

Wading they wander,
waiting they wonder,

“Is this a moment made
merely for the passing?”

No longer smashed
beneath the wrongness
of staying, hopes betrayed,
and weirdnesses made
manifest in oddities
and the strange flows
of ebbing sadness,

incomprehensible,

in a home
that isn’t
my home.

This is a moment of madness.

The last binding is broken,
and of broken things,
this last one is bespoke.

Hand(un)made by me,

clumsily, carelessly,
but still a fine instrument
to repel the distant one
I most wanted to be
the comforting closest.

The last binding
is snapped and broken,
the secret is shown.

I won’t always control
where I place my feet
on life’s twisting road.

This is the ancient journey
toward the Great Moving On.

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©️ CG Tenpenny, 2024.

I’m feeling unfettered and my words are returning. What an excellent way to feel!