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