I’m so much more than I was before,
that is, immediately prior.
Yet so much less than when at my best.
There’s so much more of me required.
I stumble often, the falls don’t soften
when I’m face down on the cobblstones.
The beaten path, I have to laugh,
it was never meant for me to roam.
I blaze a trail, succeed or fail,
my life may seem a bit quixotic.
Out of my head, I think instead
the Grail has come to be hypnotic.
Elusive search, that perfect perch,
upon it sat my perfect dove.
It took to wing, and with it things
ever inseparable from love.
Some things I’ve learned, having been burned,
creating visceral knowledge.
That we all must, at some point trust,
I do vulnerably acknowledge.
I’ll find my way, that’s what they say.
One day the world will be my oyster.
But I’m obtuse, a true recluse,
prefer things here within my cloister.
M. Zane McClellan
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