In Quiet Rue

The sights, the scenes, the thinner air.
Only now I start to care.

About the sins, about the fails,
And their effects, what they entail.

Can it be fixed after the fact?
To make it work, to bring it back,

In a way that won’t feel forced,
Or artificially re-sourced?

That story told to get me through,
Way back here to quiet rue.

To hanging sides or some quarters,
In deference to my supporters?

Or keep it so as future fuel,
An impetus, a hidden jewel?

A fire burns deep within.
Searing recount of the sins.

To be so easily achieved,
And leaving feeling so relieved.

That story told to get me through,
Way back here to quiet rue.

A history of hard-earned gain,
Always from struggle, all from pain.

Of getting back upon my feet,
And get knocked down . . . and repeat.

Shell of rock on liquid cores.
It can no longer be ignored.

For its movement does not cease.
And so, there never shall be peace.

Only work and things to do.
Like finding calm in quiet rue.