Maybe. by Mark Waltz
Trashed, torn. Wildly tossed.
A paper boat fighting to float on a river of rage.
Uncertain. Hoping. Defeated.
Groping, grasping. Tightening grip.
A child watching his balloon ripped violently away.
Clinching. Wishing. Disheartened.
Stumbling, sprawling. Footing strained.
A threatening mountain mudslide after angry deluge.
Weak. Pulling. Dropping.
Looking, longing. Vision lost.
Searching ominous, black sky. Night watching for light of dawn.
Longing. Believing. Depressed.
This reckless amble has charted a course far from a place that’s no longer home?
This relentless grip has been a strangle hold on something begging for release?
This clumsy crash has been the only possible way to find the ground beneath?
This search for light has been driven by fear of what the night holds – that isn’t there?
Buoyant waters will give passage to open sea, peacefully home, now and always.
Whispering winds will loosen this firm grasp, lifting weakened wings, soaring high above.
The thick mountain mud will grow sanguine seed, promise of new blooms and blossoms of life.
Dark skies will be the backdrop for the bold stars that will illuminate my journey.