by JC Roberts

inspired by “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman  

I want for nothing anymore 
just the time I've earned to be who I should be 
Free to watch the leaves whirl in November's updrafts 
and settle in April rains 

Nothing more than what was taken against my will 

All the time to sleep until 3 am, or 3 pm 
To work on what makes the world tolerable 
To quiet me in its chaos 

To walk unencumbered by time, 
man-made or from God's divine finger. 
I rush for no more for anyone, besides myself. 
Only rush to capture everything in childish scrawl or articulate calligraphy. 

I read all I want. 
Word for Word now, 
instead of Page by Page. 

I enjoy every bite of every meal that finds its way to my table. 
I appreciate them like songs, 
I'll never hear again. 

There's nothing that elicits lament anymore. 
Not for lost connections, or people, or opportunity. 
Only laments for the seconds, minutes, and hours that eluded me before. 

They all pass through me now. 
None go by unnoticed. 
There is nothing missed that I choose not to miss.  

It is mine 
To share or hide 
To explore or reject. 
To tend my words as sheep in the fields. 
I have become the path that veered off the road I traveled.