Barbed Isolation
by Odin Roark

Of the few…

Forever lost are the voices saying “nay” to fearless hope,
and long gone are the rains that once muddied the foundation,
evolving a matrix of baked drought,
the paradoxical enabler,
sanctioning persistence to survive.

Being human…

We long for the innocence of heroic action,
even knowing framed honors were not meant for some,
instead the sharp edges of experience to humbly affix to one’s inner wall.

So say some of dying.

So say some wishing to escape the agony of more.

Can death be the only sanctuary from the insanity of fear?

Is home only found beneath life’s weathered shield of resistance,
that place tucked safely away beneath one’s naked honesty
an exposure known only to the owner?

Oh, to be one of those who dare
to seek out that place,
where stripped away layers of protection
saturated with the tears of answers begetting but more questions,
where nature's compass is always pointing to yet another unexpected direction.

Some say such a direction
is seen only by those whose open hearts,
ravaged by wanderlust and the shedding of weathered insulation
know the leap required to avoid the abyss.

What drives those of us to leave behind the habit of place and protection,
to risk the run, walk, and for many, the crawl
through barbed spirals of isolation
into those new battlefields of the unknown
for but another glimpse of what might be,
the what, where, and why so many avoid?

Is it but enigmatic, this home we seek,
where assumed walls and roof,
or fortified landscape are instead a mind’s open terrain,
the consummate oxygen of breath unobstructed?

And if home be the purpose of the journey
what validation allows entry?

Such is the poet’s quest,
knowing any answers
will beget more questions.

Cogito,ergo sum.