Dave's Mental Meanderings
Poem - "Southbound Escapists"
Laying low in the land of quiet contentment
And passing the days without sound,
Reflecting too late on the grim frowning fate
Of the brand new mourning I’ve found.
The paint hasn’t dried on the red bleary-eyed
Mural of whirling glory,
Through the nights dark and black, yet I now harken back
To what seems the sad end of some story.
For fortnights preceding our holy conceding
Of shifty-eyed hang-ups and tension,
I drug my boots through a tangle of roots
And smiled at solely its mention.
Then at last on the day of departure I’d say
The good omens rose high to our knees.
How could I have guessed that the hearts in our chests
Would out-beat such doubtless decrees?
For I challenged these champs of night-splitting lamps
To meet head-on with the fire,
And found two soldiers with sound willing shoulders
Where expecting mere funeral pyres.
And how with our history transcending all mystery
Could I have been expected to know it?
Though inspiring elation, they never met designation
As muses or martyrs or poets.
Lone islands perhaps, like fixtures on maps
Of serene dissociative seas,
Abstractly maintaining their willful refrain
From protective collective pleas.
Secular strays and saints of the day
And ephemeral updraft gliders,
But seldom seen on the starry night screen
As crusaders and midnight riders.
Now all trace of doubt of their souls so devout
Has been stricken from permanent record,
Having joined them in flight through anonymous night,
The southbound escapist’s protector.
Our farewell bidders may feign to consider
Such perilous practice as pious,
But such daring endeavors in dreams they dissever
From the dubious way that they eye us.
They lack the pure life to lay on the line
Unencumbered by numbers and rules,
They’ve no choice but to sigh as our voice echoes high
Over motley amalgams of fools.
Just as they warned there will surely come storms
To darken our days on the run,
But in spirited stride we’ll seek the far side
And make our way back to the sun.