At some point I became a rock. A mountain. I didn’t mean to. It’s not me. I move. I roll.
Yet arriving here, to the land I know, all my movement stopped.
The howling drive for more depth, more sky, more seas seized up, took root and fastened me where you don’t want to be.
You crave desert light, hot blue streams of people, dreams of wailing sirens pulling you out of this greysky shore where mountains erode.
How long can we strain on this point of staying or going, rocking or rolling, dreaming or remaining before we break apart?
Will mercy give way or we give way to mercy so we fall into each other again?