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.
Avoid.
Despise.
Deride.
But these imperfections
are just reflections
of you
every time.
Poetry lives outside.
DJR – 2023
