Scatter Me At The Crossroads

This is how our dreams end: not an avalanche cascading around our ears,

But in the subtle shift of pebbles in a stream bed,

An endless series of minute compromises with ourselves

Which we justify to by raising the spectre

Of the weight of disappointment from unrequited expectation

Or the bogeyman of unintended consequence from our successes.

And so we make the box of our wishes smaller and then yet smaller,

Until we do not recognize them as ours at all;

Or, perhaps, we have adulterated them so often we can no longer ascertain

At what point they stopped resembling our hopes and ideals,

Not unlike when the batter, stepping to the plate, scratches out the back line

Of the batter’s box until its boundary disappears

Into a confusion of dust and lime.

 

One final wish, then; scatter me at the crossroads when I die,

So that, if perhaps for only that one moment, I can rise

Above the gray and cracked macadam of these too-familiar roads

And float into a clear, blue unambiguous sky, no longer a victim of the gravity

Of the workaday concerns that shackle us together

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2 thoughts on “Scatter Me At The Crossroads

  1. I might be such a carefree person to freely say that the pebbles can be set back to where they shifted from or the dried batter could be scratched out of the box – though I haven’t seen such a clean box in my life yet – but isn’t hope the thing that keeps us all thinking. Otherwise we would forget the greater ideals we imagined in the dawns of our lives and continue to the end just as normal as we have come to be. Of course it is only normal to have such a final deadly wish since we all see at some point that it is almost impossible to rise above the mediocrity of life which just drifts away in its own subtle and original way.

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