The Poetry Marathon

There is a wilderness;

I wander it alone.

I can’t get you in;

The borders are sealed.

Enough is enough.

This is not poetry,

But the desperation

Of a reluctant air passenger.

I want to go home,

But where is that?

I would believe you

If you told me

That Terminal 2 at JFK Airport

Was in fact some strange purgatory

Between Earth and Hell.

My, but we are in the funhouse tonight!

This is controlled chaos.

This is no place for Homo sapiens.

Just when and how

Did we all agree to this?

Shhhh, you’re finding fault

With a perfect creation again.

So hungry I could cry.

We are all this hungry

In various ways.

I am not moved.

Where is the storm?

Rain was predicted.

All there is

Is cloud.

Where is the blinding grief I thought

Would see me through the day?

It has been a horribly reliable fuel source.

Horribly reliable.

And on this day that I thought would be made easy

By flammable words and imagery,

Blinding grief is nowhere to be seen.

At your house in my mind,

I look around and see

Everything we left,

As though we are still there.

I am sorry for the leaving.

Every time, I am sorry.

The bell tolls

I am leaving.

Grieving will come,

And go,

And come,

And go.

Like the breath.

Everything moves in cycles,

And I am no exception.

Oh, just trust.

Have I failed you yet?

You keep declaring it’s the end of the story,

And yet, I know it isn’t.

No wonder you are disappointed.

You have not gotten to the best part.

Stop truncating majesty.

Stop nailing down mystery.

You will see, once you are wide, wide open,

Why I first began your story at all.