Life is but a tunnel, sometimes narrow sometimes an oceanic view.
We can touch the edge, but so few dare to dive, to catch the rip tide.
We splendor searching for the ocean in the tunnel, not once, but many times,
inconsistent times endeavoring to know what we don’t know
touch what we have seen, but can’t reach.
I recall 6 and 7 in a paper-mâché and tempera paint learning place.
Milk breaks and nap times some called wasted times.
A dream now, too far to reach.
Innocence widened the gap for a moment and stealing silver crayons
meant lessons in character building.
Calling names and playing tag echoed the voice of childhood.
My box didn’t have silver or gold.
We want, still reaching, occasionally touching, and rarely holding that proverbial thing.
The tunnel narrowed at 11, cruelty invaded space where
gasping for air was futile.
Sixth grade was the last grade and being called gay
created an ugly duckling who couldn’t swim
in a murky water by way of hopefulness and sporadic thoughts of nothing.
Memories clouding the tunnel, blazing a barricade to the unknown, yet
we forge on.
Trampled and lost we pay the cost of broken dreams and
facades of what we want to be.
We travel light, too afraid to take the comforts of our past,
too narrow minded to leave them all behind.
There is hope.
There at the end of the tunnel beyond where we can see.
Idealized by what we know and what we have not known
commingled in a gulf of rising tides.
We reach for the hand in the darkness, straining to touch the fingertips
of one last dream.
The light, there rising above brilliant waves
rolling, promising, bridging the gap between who we are and who we want to be.
Not knowing with one foot on the edge leaning in
we must take the risk
in order to know the vastness of unknown before us.