It is the I

It is the I which goes the distance
In becoming the tiny truth that 
Pretends to see the distance in
Believing the littlest and the stone.

It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon 
Night, in giving vapid vent to the 
Inner dark and the outer dark.

It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s