Turning
Lying depth, so it's been said,
Down with things that stand;
Turning, turning.
There was that field from before,
And the fight to feel home.
There was I, and us,
And I, and you,
And that pesky emptiness,
Some call the Moon.
Crying to call it Sacred,
With more leaves than roots.
The lifted weight falls heavier now,
And again,
While that belonging is lost.
There is that smirk of the Promised Land;
A gleaming Different, with glitter-green.
Not the stars,
Nor astronomer,
But the gap in between.
There was you,
However brief,
And those great ships that sail in the night.
Yet where is that Earthly residue,
The poets dared to call Gods?
And where do you sleep,
In the eye of the cloudy drop?
Still we sit;
Turning, turning;
Will you never tell me, or grab my hand?
What if I stayed forever,
And there was nothing again?
I can lie,
In the field that will be,
As I, or you, or I, or we,
And gaze upon the glory beneath;
Turning, turning.
Copyright © Connor Hayes | Year Posted 2016
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