Elsewhere

06 November 2025

https://poems.culturing.net/2025/11/elsewhere/

Fully aware of the absurdities of love,
its shape-shifting nature and elan/despair,
I nonetheless must foolishly declare
my own heart, if I'm ever to break free.
For the battle has always been inside of me,
where these symbols interpret themselves,
and my conscious attention is pulled undertow.
How amazing and brave one must be
to confront one's own angels and demons,
refusing to be anything but human. I see
a green field on the horizon, now tilled,
but my seeds have dried out, though a few
found a hole in the bag, and were scattered
along the way. I cannot go back for them now.
They will grow, or not, where I left them,
and sun and rain will take care of the rest,
or not. But my garden is on other soil.
My garden has always been elsewhere.