Smallritual

Lost in space

We fear to become like the people on the train,
grey from travelling too long without arriving.

We walk the city streets
dressed in clothes designed for Everest,
hope that Gore-tex might protect us,
proof against assault or sneaking rain.
We carry a universe in our bags
in case we never make it home.
So many pockets make us self-contained.

We are geared to survival.

What does it mean to armour yourself daily,
to take each step without belief in destination?
To seek the corner seat,
prepare for disaster that may never come
because we know it's best to be prepared?
Are we strangers, everywhere?
To what pole are we walking?

Does our clothing seek some other shore,
plunge into life in spite of global warning?
Still recollect affectionate winds,
hold smoke of half-forgotten fires,
dream of the light,
wait silently for morning?

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