Travelled Too Far

It was wishful to hope
that the aged starling could fly
and make its nest before
its younger friend got there−

that indentations in the brook,
would smoothen out
and churning eddies melt
into the smoothness of the clear stream−

that the heart torn apart
would not plummet
like a stone,
to the thudding hardness
of the brown ground below−

that I could step out of my dream
and find I had arrived
unscathed and unscarred−

that those kindled moments of joy
would gently leap into flame,
and transfix me to where
you sat waiting
innocent and pure:
As I tried to unfold myself
and not break the stem.

I should not have bared
and stripped my heart naked,
for that is when
you murmured your knife through me.

I have travelled too far
and to all the wrong places.
The wait is now futile
wrapped in ennui and fatigue;
only seldom does
fear come as relief,
from the boredom
of waiting,
of waiting
for nothing,
to happen.