Single form, I,
Separated; my brethren from on high,
Yearning to reach the bosom lest I die.
Racing to the earth amidst –
Fellow forms – trembling with a sigh.
Split asunder. I gather my arms,
And limp: limping does the charm.
Pushed from afar, please come to no harm,
As I, joined by friends, weave through the tarmac.
A ravine we find,
Beset with legends of forest and bind,
Looming overhead tall cliffs of like kind,
Channeling us closer to that bosom we so mind.
A corner we meet –
Suddenly – as we tumble about to greet
these old ruins.
Time has not been kind, for the decay that weeps
meets no sleep.
We run toward the exit, as if in heat,
But we are met a form so thick, it might be peat.
All is well; for we tumble again and slow…
down… as we meet our keep.
The sieve that held us back lets us through,
in time, when our friends are few.
We continue on, as stubborn beings do,
‘Til at last we embrace what we sought,
feeling as if we were new.