Some people say
that when they stay
too long in one place,
the strands of their mind begin to fray.
Some people face
the shore, sand like lace,
while the horizon beckons,
then turn back in disgrace.
Some people work on,
head home along
a new path, saying
“This is where I belong.”
Some people sing
out, flex their itchy wings
and fly, like eagles,
to new worlds – new things.
Some peoples’ lives trickle
through their fingers. Bells will
toll, at the break of day,
mourning a curse so evil.
Poetry and Prose 