Wildness Within Reaching

To carry 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,
Our personal history trying desperately
To be known.

Yet 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.

We gaze blindly at our maps,
Time's patient gift of instinct,
Affording navigation of mind,
Only to wander blindly,
Or imitate other explorers
Busy realizing who they are.

How easily we don their costume,
Only to find a blank stage
Where audiences of you,
You,
And You
Remain mute
Without applause.
 
Such is the waste of idle map pins
Pressed upon one's creative grid,
Allowing matrix of choice 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,
Like a lion afraid to spring,
Fearful of the wildness within.

Time continues on our side.