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.