Tibetan Nights

The only thing that breathes is the sound of engine
Relentless in its climb against the steep rugged pass
Palms cold with sweat, eyes too awake for their sockets
Somewhere I heard a cry in the wild, it was my own voice.
Sounds drum in and out
Half of everything made sense; the rest was a strange spasm.

To think just yesterday I was filled with purpose
Believing life held a distinct shape
One should have known meanings are projections
For journeys like mine never end.
I am a spinning wheel blown in all directions
I am the eternal misfit’s voice …

They have stopped moving now
Ahead lay the town barely visible without the streetlights
A lone thought zipped by
Where is everyone?  Dear God where is everyone?!
The walls inch closer against my heart
Drapchi had cast its shadow on the moon.
I lay on the bed I have to sleep- I need to sleep
Men of the Tibetan nights I see them coming
In loose dark suits, silent as ghosts
I force my eyes open until the silhouettes fade
Yes you are here!
Here in a little apartment across a golf course
Choked by feather light pillows … this is absurd!

Crippled by the baggage of the past
I wait for the sunlight unable to sleep
Some say for your own sake never look back
Others insist people have a right to hear my story.


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