Photo: Laura Crowley
There will be a day, they say that the mud won’t be so sticky
That the earth will bend and give and soften
That the dart of my body will soar up
and fall down with opportunity
As I lie in weight in the dart of my body
Sent not chosen
Thrown not caught
Picked up, projected, piercing the ground
Stuck without rhythm or beat
I wonder what the dart feels on its tail, while its head rests cold below
I imagine the dart feels the breeze and wonders about it's course
I imagine it wonders about paper airplane
How they glide and twirl and dance
The way the air can send them to a new place,
a measly whisper alters the landing
I imagine the dart feels rain and how gently or heavily it hits
How lighter bodies melt and move and sway in the rain
The way water can carry things on unseen adventures
Or rinse away marring
There will be a day, they say, that the edge will not be so cutting
That the cusp will not be so crisp
That the shadow will find its way to the front
That the underground will be above
That the path will be paved
That the paper will be a map
That the leaders will speak truths
The leaders aren’t lying, but they aren’t leading, they just happen to be ahead
Charting
Trying
Casting
Composing
Succeeding
Failing
Aiming
Throwing Darts
When my dart hits the earth, it lands without warning,
Picked up, sky rocketed, propelled down, thud
That is where I land
No axis to spin
No equator to rotate
No terrain to traverse
Earth
To endure
To explain
To usher
There will be a day, they say that darts won’t be right
That paper airplanes
Or rain drops
Will lighten the load, will aid in the movement, will ring true to form.
There will be a day, they say, when I throw the dart.
When I become the archer.
They say.
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