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The Mud of Experience
Forever lost are the voices of fearless hope
and long gone are the rains that muddied the foundation
Even as we long for the innocence of heroic action
framed honors were not meant to be for some
and there remains only the mud of experience to nail on the wall
So say some of the dying
So say some wishing to escape the agony of living
Is home only found beneath the buttons of shielded resistance?
Can death be the only sanctuary from the insanity of fear?
Is one's true home but a place locked safely away
beneath some naked honesty known by only a few.
Might those who dare
to seek out that place
where stripped away layers of protection
saturated with the tears of elusive answers
find destiny’s compass pointing to yet another unexpected direction?
And is that direction
seen only by those whose open buttons
ravaged by wanderlust and the shedding of mud-caked insulation
leap from the twisted abyss with abandonment into another time?
What drives us to leave behind the habit of place and protection
to once again run, walk, and ultimately crawl
through barbed spirals of isolation
into those battlefields of the unknown?
Is it enigmatic, this home many seek
without assumed walls and roof
or fortified landscape?
And if home be the purpose of the journey
what validation allows entry?
Might the mud of experience
Open the door of answers
And allow new questions?
Perhaps…
Cogito, ergo sum
Beckons new beginnings
The ones without end…
Perhaps?