The green grass and the barbed wire fence,
pasture and livestock . . . another fence,
meadowlands and woods beyond.
Those woods could be second growth,
and the grass is chewed down every season.
My spirit roams as I sleep,
it is often not with those I slumber with,
it can be lost within the woods,
sometimes it is farther afield. It is not
faithful my spirit, is yours?
These days I slumber alone, but never
truly alone. There is always something
that I reach out to, or reaching in.
When I was young I hoped for passion.
When I loved, I dreamed of passion.
I do not remember anybody explaining
the difference between the two.
Someone may have hinted along the way,
but they never said the words.
I never said the words either,
it seemed rude, or perhaps
like all humans; I lied.
I remember hands reaching through the wire,
sometimes my own, some coming from the other side.
Grasping, trying to hold on as eyes stray
to the forest, or the critters of the flock.
I can still feel the barbs and see scars
where drops of blood once blossomed.
Passions left me longing for my home,
not feeling that I was home.
Pleasures of the flesh were rarely pleasures
of the spirits joined. No one gave the caveat
of jumping bones for jumping bones,
even when younger. Now that I am old
and withered, that is not a likely case.
My spirit still wanders as all spirits
wander. I know the world, the universe
of illusion and desire. I know
that desire can be just a glamour
of self delusion in others as well
as in me. The grass
is always greener on the other
side of age.