Staring, startled forever
trembling into sunlit paths
Meant for someone tolerable
And tactical, but not I–
Who stares, startled at what
Is not mine, not fit for fragile
feet or unbalanced breath
Lack sight upon stones
or maybe touch on tall tiller
Fingers frantic at the blind
lighting of a path,
not mine,
Meant for meeker presences
I find mirages of mute colors
Rouge in restless thunder
Fought finely with rough mastery
For a path,
–stone sighted, tiller touched–
that is mine.
About the Author
With a handful of passions, including the environment, reading, and adventure, Erin Figueroa is studying Business and English at Eastern University. A random fact about her is that her favorite thing to do is wake up early just to read or write, but most importantly, drink coffee. She believes that the mornings are the most beautiful and productive times.
Inklings Literary Magazine 