Poem: Stranger Stuff

end-of-footsteps

Stranger Stuff

You have walked this way for hours,
along the broad beaches with their tides,
past the point that juts out into the sea
collecting flotsam that glistens in the low tide.

There were people when you first arrived,
a fair number of them,
all come to get away as they huddle together
okaying on the beach, surfing, reading with their bottles.

A few, like you, walk. Sometimes in pairs.
Sometimes alone.
Short journeys, mostly, a few more determined,
or perhaps more lost, walk on a while longer.

You walk too. Lost in, not thoughts, but feelings
you need to translate into thought,
your heart and mind not at war exactly,
as much as foreigners to each other,

Siamese twins from different lands,
slow to learn, slow to comprehend
this strange intertwining  that seems so effortless
to the world around you

with its fast anger and sure hearts,
so ready to condemn and love with conviction
every brief leaving of the tide,
content to repeat the same flash of feeling as water rises and falls.

You are made of stranger stuff, less sure,
more seeking, a wholeness made not of certainty,
but brokenness and searching.
a strange creature who walks past the final footsteps,

to that place where everyone else has turned back
from either weariness or boredom,
and then to keep walking towards alone,
where there is no escape, and no one

to witness your battle save you and your God.

You will not turn back for some time yet.
There are thoughts and feelings that need to be knit into one,
and it is a journey that only happens in lonely places,
and let the emptiness make a place for everything to flee,

leaving only you,
at your most basic,
your most raw,
your most real.

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