Crouching Wildness Within
by Odin Roark

To carry about one's images,
one's melodies
as but symbols in stone,
is to know only the grating sound
of their existence as their platelets of age
move about to get our attention—the essence
of our personal history trying desperately
to be known.

Yet…

Why do we divert our course,
so often bushwhacking our way,
even when nature's wisdom
stands ready to raise the sun,
arc the moon,
lift the tides,
give direction for one's innate destiny?

Oh, how loud our alter-self screams,
even as we bury our unresolved purpose
in pillows of darkness
beneath pulled-tight blankets of fear.

Daylight beckons, but…

We gaze blindly at our maps,
Time's patient gift of instinct
affording navigation of mind,
only to witness ourselves wandering blindly
or imitate other explorers
busy realizing who they are.

And still…

How easily we don other’s costuming,
only to find a blank theater
where audiences of you,
you,
and,
you,
remain mute
giving not any applause.

Such is the waste of idle map pins
pressed upon one's creative landscape,
allowing right choices to remain in limbo,
willing to pursue side roads,
afraid of throughways,
that straight path
from a to z,
where inner trust,
intuitive knowledge
vies to become wisdom,
even as it willingly faces peril.

The journey of imagination
asks we only be who we are
naked of who we are not.

Perhaps…

We are like a lion afraid to commit,
spring,
ever so fearful of the uncontrollable wildness within.