Are We There Yet?

We came in troves.
All of us.
Down from the mountain top of our own despairs.
Some of us had parting gifts in hand:
Toxicity
Pain
Discomfort
Weariness
We were called to come back to ourselves
We didn't say by who
All we would, could, possibly reveal were
Ourselves

I am 10 years old again, the minute I close my eyes
I dream in black and red
I revert back to a childhood disturbed

We walk for miles
Our destination(s) unknown

We pass family, friends, and foes
Unrecognizable to them, we pass silently

I tap what looks like the shoulder blade of the thing in front of me:
Are we there yet?
Thing shrugs without ever turning around

Are We There Yet?

This is much of life
At least the creative life,
Marching to an unknown, unheard of destination
Feeling called, but not necessarily heard
Who knows why?

Back in the old days, people credited their muse with respect to completing great work
I wonder who they kept in mind’s eye
Were their muses as real to them as the street noise in the background?
Their children playing tag?
As real to them as loneliness is to the recently heartbroken?
Here
Taking up space
Undeterred.

Are We There Yet?