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Journey 1991

Submitted by Virginia Watts on Tue, 01/20/2015 - 13:29

  

There is a particular longing, ever-present, and unnamed 

permeating into areas ordinarily inaccessible if circumscribed by specifics.

How, then, can it be a particular longing?

But it is something -- something unclaimed, wandering loose, or sitting forlornly, like lost luggage.

A sensitivity stripped bare? A need for astonishing uninhibited connection?

The thought of living shrouded is a continuous, dim discord. 

Wings may be called for.

There are eyes, legs, hands, lips, breasts, a heart

too long constricted.

That longing itself made small, unimportant, by necessity.

Can I stop cheating myself, my soul, and celebrate the ecstasy of living? 

Can this random yearning show me the way?