There is a small voice inside us all.
A spirit— if you please —
known to you only.
Who knows the spirit of a man
beyond the body housing it?
I have known mine to rebel—
a dog straying deep into the wild fields,
away from that damned whistle of control.
What you call rebellion is my spirit saying:
go in the way where no one goes. Be free.
Wildness is a beautiful thing—
a tree sitting on a hill where no plants germinate.
What grows beyond the wild fields?
I cannot know if I listen to this sound
separate from the sound inside me.
In my dreams,
I am that dog. I am so beautiful.
I walk beyond the wild fields
& it feels like I am a kite —
a free soul following the wind’s movement.
But when I’m awake,
I am still as I am —
obedient to voices that should be foreign to me.
I localize these exotic sounds
& make them a home inside me.
My new obsession is to be bold enough
to be the straying dog.
I do not want to only dream this rebellion.
I want to own it.
What is a dream if it doesn’t feel the sun’s glow?
A fig tree cursed by the Lord. A bulb without filament.
A moonless night. Deep darkness.
I pledge to the voice inside me,
to open myself like a door & let it out.