The Totem

I’ve tread a thousand miles
unfaltering,
narrating my passage
in bleak riddles
where the wildwood resin is agleam
but there’s a thicket across my tremble
where tangles bind my hands
strangles my tone
smothering bone
The wrath of the labyrinthine
sullies the flow of thought
choking my spirit
in the midst of a tempest of perplexity
Though, in its visceral misbehaving, stood I—
the thistle
with a bend in my spine
where there’s potency in abscess

Keepers of the torrent
Feed me a resilience
that’s fibrous and sinewy
Serve me grit or serve me wine
make a totem of my backbone

My fingers have fortitude
as I tug at the thicket
Before the rigidity entombs
freeing the burden of lost tenor
O’er mountains, I’m expressed  
O’er the order, I’m obtained
As prowess lay, unchained
warm freedom
with subtle distractions

Mother of meddle
guide my wander, let me breathe
lashes over ashes
Where there’s plunder in plight  

Pardon, mother
Wherefore might I roam?
To break falter?
To wake the altar?
The path is misty
without the silk of your hand