The ropes lie coiled on deck,
passive, almost beautiful, waiting
for their calling,
to bind, either in love or capture,
Your mind wanders.
You have been held in both,
so bound in love you could not tell one
from the other,
so captive in fear that your truest self
disappeared like a slow motion magic trick.
The wind shifts. It rustles in the sails.
It is a new journey, and you have not survived the storms
You know it is better to face them honestly
than to count on the bindings to save you.
The sails fill and after years in the harbor,
safely moored by anchors and rope,
it is time to sail.
to become part of the horizon
others merely watch.
About this poem
A poem of false beliefs. What binds us? Why? Do the binding help us rise? Or hold us back?