THINKING OF A JOURNEY
The mist only lets the tallest peaks out
to let the very top o’ them breathe
the dryer colder air untainted.
I am yet standing a bit below cloud covered,
not having yet found the way to the peaks
where the sun shines, unveiling the fog of mystery.
I did not come with a sell by date imprinted on me,
though I feel my usefulness is long expired.
Some still come by and taste the mind of me
and do not appear to get sick as I extend my stick
always pointing them higher,
further than they thought they could ever go.
Places they belong
where the air is thinner
but the sun is shining clarity.
To me it feels as if the one who is drawing the cartoon
is the only one who is real,
the rest of us lines of ink on paper
sent to an assistant for coloring
in this gray foggy untended world
of too much death before the top is claimed
with not enough crowding on the mountain peaks.
I grab my stick,
I grab my stick,
steady myself, take one more staggering step
on the loose rock filled terrain upward.
I rest again
and wonder if
I am extending my life as I go slower towards the peak
where the earth ends and the sky begins.
I want to get there, if for no other reason than to find my true color
which I know is not this shroud of gray
questioning of misunderstanding.
I will get to the peak and then—look down
see the mist hiding from my sight the path
I took to get atop the mountain of my life
and see my choices are simple enough.
Jump back into the shroud for cover and safety from truth
or lay down all care and concern for my true color and jump
for the light of the sun never to return
to this place of mountains and fog again.
© M Durfee