My soul lingers in a place where terrible talons
spring from the depths of a great void to grasp
at the edge of light, trying to pull hope into its nothingness
and suffocate joy in the heavy folds of its emptiness
I don’t recall the exact path I travelled to wind-up
here, this ending place, but I know dark thoughts paved the way
The sound of doors opening, opportunity and energy rushing-in,
to replace staleness and stagnation, for others but not me—
has deflated my spirit sending it spiraling toward the cliffs of the abyss
It is not fame or applause I crave, it is acceptance.
I long to be invited to sit around a campfire
not as a stranger, passing through
not as a wanderer, guarded and aloof
but as a member of the clan
Weaving stories amid beating drums and ancient songs
I am She-Who-Stands-Alone by circumstance not choice
and I’ve grown weary of the infernal CLICKING
of locks and latches upon my approach.
I want to master the art of belonging,
to understand what is missing in my smile:
that it does not reassure,
what is missing in my handshake:
that it does not engender trust,
why my overtures of friendship:
are met with suspicion
Yet, I’m no closer today than I was yesterday
to finding the answers to these questions,
it is a riddle whose solution eludes me
I only know some are invited to sit by the campfire
while others are sent away, cold and dejected
If I am to remain a wanderer, a traveling gypsy
I must faithfully cling to the hope, one day I, too,
will be invited to sit around a campfire by a people,
MY PEOPLE,
not as a stranger, passing through,
not as a wanderer, guarded and aloof
but as a member of the clan
Weaving stories amid beating drums and ancient songs
It is why I do not tarry long along the cliffs of the abyss or heed its siren’s call.
