The Blood & The Bones

I think the saying goes that years run together
so it’s no surprise that so many of mine became indiscernible from the other
I have tried to take account of the journey, my journey (even though I hate that word), when I wonder how I got here
completely unsure of just how much time I spent floating, lulled by the waves of the lonely
was I existing to be found when I was never actually searching?
is this how they always picked me out as willing?
I confess that, at one time, consent could have been given
thrown voluntarily overboard
this was my identity
a lone piece of driftwood
an unexpected raft upon waters unsteady

was I just a life jacket for so many?
I was

until I hit rock
stable, sure, secure
an island, my island
solid and steady
now I feel as if all else must have always been meant to be temporary
stowaways, hangers on
is it life that is the water?
or humans that are the truest vacillating storm?
and are they one or are they both?
we know that rain is fickle
moving on to other places with so much ease
you have to wonder how it ever fell so hard, so intense, upon your shoulders
but we learn to trust that water is not fixed
we know that water is inconstant
it is known all too well to the thirsty
and we learn, too, that it is better
to build our home upon the stone

the blood
& the bones