There’s a story just below the surface- pressing and tapping against me like tiny kicks from inside a growing womb.
A story of days that don’t go quite as they should; like finding those frozen corn bits burrowed down in your TV dinner dessert.
This story, it will only be read once… and the toil of keeping it on the right track wears deep grooves in my thoughts.
The options are endless, the tracks hug each other in tight knots until one looks like the other-
disguising the fact that they will lead me to opposite ends of the earth.
Do I close my eyes and trust You’ll throw the switches?
Do I choose the way I want to go and hope You’re authoring desire?
Do I plot the course with compass and pray it’s pointing truest North?
Or is this metal monster making blurs of the world I’m meant to zig-zag through?
A foreign object cutting dark through the painted landscape of my life?
There’s a story calling to explode out of my heart and hands and mouth.
Its knocking keeps me up at night.
The pressure of holding kinetic inside frail skin makes me pace and re-polish my polished surfaces;
Pawing at the dirt like a tiger on a chain.
There is a rough and restless story in remission inside me…
Looking straight into the tangled mess of track,
clawing for the brake release.