If your footprints are crooked like a gypsy soul, a wandering outcast shoved off the linear road
If your true north falters, and the destination obscures until it’s less an arrival, more a wrong turn
That’s permissible.
If your heart won’t contain all the wild inside, the fracas, the clutter, the imperfect divide
If your spirit is grounded, wings clipped in flight, but still dares to hope in the waning moonlight
That’s permissible.
If your pierced liquid eyes unmask a counterfeit smirk, and there’s no other defense to whitewash the dirt
If your tear tracks have withered, but the stains have adhered, a salty reminder, an obstinate smear
That’s permissible.
If your bone wearied legs are slogging through mire, so each tiptoe forward keeps stoking the fire
If your white-knuckled hands grope for an anchor to sustain through life’s eddies, its swells and its breakers
That’s permissible.
If your nights of stargazing, of groaning for impact, seem more like illusions that exist in abstract
If your mornings of stillness, remote from the world, are the last cords of sanity that haven’t unfurled
That’s permissible.
If your senses are stirring and coming alive to the flicker of daybreak, the passion revived
If your love can’t be tarnished, trampled or tamed, and you refuse to view kindness as just a cliche
Hey…
That’s permissible too.
So, listen. Receive. It’s time we all knew
To be real is permissible. And that is our truth.
