Sunday, December 7, 2008

pilgrims' progress

Strangers In A Strange Land

There were always oceans to cross.

Blunt force waves pulling punches beneath our promise.
Gale force winds pushing palisades against our progress.

Pilgrims, you and I, we pressed on, far afield, pure of purpose
But less than puritan, looking for our own Plymouth Rock.

Strangers in a strange land, familiar through desire, through dreams,
Feet finally firm upon a beachhead, unforgiving seas over our shoulders.

There will always be oceans to cross.

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