sorrow, dip, embers, moment, chain, wild, silver, free, trance, glimmer, faint, trim
The Edge of Belonging
I do know that I have always been one of life's observers,
always standing slightly on the outside, watching.
— Jane Green
Like embers floating high
Above and away from the flames.
Like silver glitter swirling in a globe.
The innocent bystander.
The dispassionate observer
Watching, trance like, from above,
The parade, the charade, of life around him.
People talking, engaging, interacting,
Swirl around him, unknowing, indifferent
To his underlying sorrow.
And yet, in fairness, it is not of their doing.
He chooses to be with them, but not in them.
Occasionally, with effort, he pushes himself
To dip into the wild, frightening maelstrom
That swirls around, engulfing him.
But he cannot stay, he doesn’t fit in.
They are free, he too is free, but separately so.
They are not of his tribe, not of his kin.
With them he feels chained, restrained,
More like a suspension than a solution,
In life but not of it. Swirling. Swirling.
A commensal diner at the table of life.
Now and then there is a moment,
A glimmer of acceptance, of dissolving
Into the rapidly flowing tide of life,
A brief contact with a kindred soul.
Entering more a side eddy than the full current,
Life briefly swirls and tumbles then calms.
The parade moves on, leaving him beached.
Only to wonder why? Only to trim his sails,
To reduce expectations, to retreat
To the faint but safe region:
The edge of belonging.
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