Ballast

Updated: May 29, 2020

This image, so resolutely harbored in the cove of our minds' everyday.

What others think, expect and judge of us.

It always has been a captain's edict, just understood, irrevocably.

Or was it a misapprehension whispered into a child’s guileless ear?


How does a personal truth become granite, pockmarked, but still cemented

To the existence you know as yours.

Is it genuine, or simply a chimera brocaded in preciously, pitiable waste?


All of the time, worry, self-contempt and isolation

Was perhaps never necessary at all.

Where did it come from?


To know its origins could be a crone’s comfort.

But to shed the cloyingly deceptive, sticky weight of it

Becomes the genuine pursuit of a powerful life.


Alas, bemoaning the years of fogged mirrors

Only protracts the glutinous spell.

For only through rapturous gratitude

Can our belated, self-discovery find its tractable mooring.

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