Way up here, a universe between the…
here and now.
There is still a chill in understanding the undertaking.
A personal best, per say,
in choices for the forsaking.
These are but cracks in the pavement, earthy and routine.
Times when the public handicap is less sublime…
Perhaps, to some, more obscene.
My sister does not understand…
or, better yet, has not taken the chance to know.
Perchance, had she ever glanced at the forever…shaking of my hands.
Or, the new trend of hypocrisy across the North land.
She would see same blood…different set of plans.
As a youth, frozen in a tundra of moral mediocrity..
Envy, infinitely, encompassed me.
Heeled, I walked with my sister’s feet.
Begging my veiled thoughts to…retreat.
The truest wish I had ever spoke…
‘let those after me…feel less remote.’
Alas, the ‘stoned’ split tongue undertaker has come…
Blowing winds pass my attempts at changing the tides.
My sister…still, obtuse to our different rides.
In anguish, as I have done before,
I point to the cattle prodded like guileless clowns at the door.
Yet, the hand of many prop her to her fence.
And, stage sister against…
a forest to which she can never be lent.
Rural, I am.
Nonetheless, not so different from others…of big talk…small lands.
My heart, just the same… larger than life.
Urging me, these choices you’ve made cannot be broken by gun or by knife.