That Persistent Delusion

A thousand iron anchors drag across the sand
Each time you turn.  How many pairs of eyes
And hands and voices grasp as you attempt
To make your way through this place with
Its sucking mud and sticky vines?  You end
Up where you had to go, but, head held high,
You hasten there, convinced you chose your
Destination by the sages who assured you

That your will is free.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 33 times
Written on 2022-06-05 at 00:09

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escalope_de_veau The PoetBay support member heart!
I like the imagery with the anchors and the grasp of voicers and hands. Indeed being free is sometimes an illusion