The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night; the wood is as quiet as she. Passing no one; speaking not a word, she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh. I long to be just as she, not silent sentinel, but living a whist fleet life, a power unto myself. What stands between are my hurt feelings and my longing to be loved. I can’t blame myself for either, but work to heal and grow. Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of; the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog, not for hauling on my back. I will mount up and ride my great round stead, the night is mine when I am ready the path is there I know.
Imagine an ostrich in flight
The bottom has been cut out
My underpinnings stripped from me..
Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted,
Saddled onto the rock like stock of other peoples sobriety.
Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow.
I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living
I cling to the cleft, divisions made from the people,
Places and things of my past leave me split,
Primed for fresh growth and opportunity.
Never again do I need return to the sordid
Acquisition of power or control
There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence
Graft is graft for good or bad
I don’t have to grow where I was planted.