Fortune and Friendship
Spinning out of control,
crash seeming so real and close,
a dive to forgotten controls,
the internal attack now abated.
I recover, and indeed,
achieve higher altitude,
but a new direction.
I achieved what I sought before,
but with every mile I go,
I move farther from what I had.
Like tires worn thin,
patches of wear and fragility,
threatening to burst.
As though pressure has moved,
old ties grow new and strong,
but the old ones, so cherished,
fade away slowly.
Despite my course corrections,
they continue to depart.
Is my effort not great enough?
My strength drained away?
Or do they shrink towards the horizon,
because they are moving too?
I sit alone, unsure what to do.
I take solace in the old ties returned.
But I miss what I had.
I appreciated it while I had it,
but like salt ground in an old wound,
the scenario bears striking resemblance
to campaigns lost long ago.
Every relationship strained,
every face shrinking away,
only one seeming sad to see me go,
and not so sad.
I am tormented.
I cannot go back.
I cannot survive
if I give up what I have.
Each face a piece of my heart,
ripped slowly away
as they turn towards the door.
I try so hard,
but it all seems in vain,
in the brief moments of clarity,
then do I cry each individual tear.
Into this stew is the whimsy
of desire and lust.
To think I pushed the last one,
pushed her right off the plane.
To have everything is surely greed.
I thought once it was possible,
but it seems I was wrong.
Words spoken a lot recently.
But true to my cause,
I can have no regrets.
Even my course seems hazy,
roiling clouds of uncertainty,
buffeting me like a raft on the sea.
My plane seems small indeed.
With fear I clench what I have,
trying to decide what it's all about.
Even now, I admit it is all simple.
From those moments of clarity I see.
One of those gusts lifts me high
for a brief moment I spy land.
Then I fall again into the squall.
The shell is intact as always,
the cracks so small no air passes through,
no leak from the imperfections.
The outlook still level and fair.
I pilot my craft with an unsure fate,
no heading, no compass,
and guides bailing out.
Even they have no parachutes.
The engines whine and sputter,
I can keep them running,
but my passengers are gone.
A few still sitting in the back.
A few waiting their turn at the door.
The ones I miss the most
already dove out the hatch.
Wind whipping my face,
the tears drying fast.
Now do I truly understand the analogy
of my old friend with his church.
But his poetry serves no reprieve.
And with that, nor shall mine.