(no subject)

[smokingboot]

I don't regret the way of the traveller.
I don't regret the hills behind me or the sea before me,
I don't regret the dust, the blistered feet,
For all my mistakes were born of standing still,
and every stillness pinned me through the gut,
until my wings grew dark, and nothing moved.
Since then, I packed my bag with little bones
ground up to make the earth grow sweet and green
and seedful, met the Festival of Fools,
to join them, dancing with the Pleiades

Sharing a tale of frogs with old tree roots
Long riddled with the sphinx heart-drunk on beer,
And everytime a map unfurled with
'Terra Incognita,' spread in ink
I saw myself the homecomer, the waif,
Odysseus after many years returns
Only to find he cannot sleep in Ithaca,
but needs a rolling ship, a harpy's wings
The promise of a final unknown land
Where the horizon ever calls his name.