Zion

I like it here. It can't be home, but I'm
At ease at last within this realm of
Pumpkin-colored rocks. There is no
Sound, except the wind. A river rushes
Silently a thousand feet or more below.
The sky is huge and wholly blue.
The sun is not yet fiercely hot.
There are no other humans near.
There are almost no signs of life,
Some struggling trees in crevices,
A pair of hawks which glide in circles
On the updrafts of the cliffs.
The noisome elements of life,
The job and sundry other tasks,
The constant, unrewarding efforts
To fulfill the expectations others
Have assigned to me are out of sight,
Almost forgotten, locked inside
My car to suffocate, as I breathe
Freely miles away. I like it here.
I do because it's not at all like home.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 80 times
Written on 2017-05-05 at 14:25

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