When you have no words
or poetic prose
and the silence deafens
and your world becomes small
and yesteryears disconnect
and you find you, nowhere
even while somewhere
even glancing back looking,
looking for your you,
it begs a pause.
How do I smile?
How do I laugh?
Who's by my side?
Where do my footsteps walk?
And in which direction do they move?
Toward yesteryears?
Toward a tomorrow not yet seen?
Toward an enchanted forest
with its earthy scents and majestic trees,
or to the dune-colored cliffs
and sandy rhythmed shores?
Where is my you?
With thousands of footsteps walked,
umpteen bursts of laughter and a river of tears
unfound wisdom does not quite appear.
My you is stuck, not knowing its shape
or value in the morrow.
So I sit, stilled—brazen-faced.
Taking time to dry my sodden wings
so I can fly free, again,
without the walls of yesterday
or fear of what's unknown.
I am drying my wings, I speak
I am leaning in, shifting toward,
my enlightened you.