A Life in Ballad

 

We hear the songs
we learn the words the melody
or trace the letters on yellowed pages
telling and re-telling of lives divergent
travelers, explorers
living on the water
rock dwellers desert walkers
caravans painted in crazy quilt colors
with fireside tales and centuries rising in
smoke from the campfires
people who dared and dreamed
and died some say
adding that as if it were a consequence of their actions
instead of the ending written into all our stories
even the longest song ends
where comes this courage
this rage this fear?
that finds the mundane a prison beyond horror
Desire for the untrodden path,
to be the carrier, the wind of your own change
no matter whether it be for God or king, or land or woman
spices rare, water immortal
perhaps an ideal held closer than threat of death
or one never yet spoken
to be unfettered
and make your own mark
heedless of the cost
seeking deliverance from all that enslaves
human or mammon or philosophy
how difficult it must be to hold fast to your core
with no one else to share your vision
do doubts come creeping in the midnight hour?
and can you banish them easily with the morning?
does the scent of how it could
should be
linger in your nose like greenwood fire
in your search for that most elusive
truest view of yourself
buried like rough jewels in deepest earth
do you rage against the prevailing winds
and share your path with the likeminded?
hoping tales may be told of you someday
the deeds far grander
the ending more poignant
as legend always are
If the ballad they sing is of the shattering
how you cracked wide open the mold you were cast in to
will you thank the stars, the moonbright evening
for giving you the light?
or curse them for all that could have been
had you never seen the hidden seams of gold
or the undiscovered path?
 

 ©jayetomas2014
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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