I want to rip a hole through my physical body,
and through it reach the life of bodies past.
I want to feel the fire burn, instructive.
If Icarus flew too closely to the sun
why are his scars not burned upon my body?
Into the endless sky my wings of pride take flight,
a stranger to the archeologic flame.
I want my body to be trampled on in open field
by the hooves of a thousand horses,
ten thousand military men,
one chain linked voice in chant:
the call of victory;
the call of defeat.
Why are the prints of man not trampled on my body?
my singular soul, so certain of its smooth terrain,
a stranger to the footprints of the past.
Is that why I speed into the future?
just to stumble over myself again.
Yet there is something buried in my dream,
rearing its eye like yellow dandelions in the first green of spring.
And when it reoccurs, it grows through to the surface.
One morning I’ll awaken in a field of yellow.
Am I not here to meet myself again,
to meet the human soul that is buried in me?
Am I not here to see and to be seen?
and to know myself not as I am,
but as I hope to be.
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