Where it Lives


It isn’t what you think.

Dismiss it,

oh, so easily.

Either a daisy,

or a rattlesnake.

Neither one contemplated.

The flower exists in the field,

and the eye notes its color.

The serpent lives out in the same place,

its colors keep it concealed,

and you disregard its existence,

until you hear it,

out amongst the daisies.

It isn’t what you want.

Holding hope

becomes a stone

that drags you down

into your favorite malaise.

In amongst the truth of yourself

has never been your favorite place.

Does it ever occur to you

to view

life some other way?

Take a look

through the eyes

of a neighbor

and see a new thing?

It’s not

where you want it to be.

Not a click away,

or just down the street.

It’s that yellow daisy

in the field.

The tall grass hider,

diamondback tail shaker,

basking out there,

far away from you

and your silly little comforts.

Too scared to open your eyes.

Dismiss as foolish

your own desire to find

the truth of you.

Subtle disconnections

have left you

a programmed automaton.

No way for you to go on

to the place

where truth lies.




But these imperfections

are just reflections

of you

every time.

Poetry lives outside.



DJR – 2023

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