Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

Free As Can Be

As I walked stiff
through the typically referential wilderness
and felt nothing
but the cruel demonic discourse
I woke up and understood
that I had truly been
in an exile for many years.

I’m sober now and I’ve seen everything
and I’ve been faithfully
taking the required notes
during all the deaths
and the numb demolitions.

But the altar in the clearing
overlooking the stopped-up creek
was still erect. I would make
some kind of sacrifice
to the Prime Mover but nothing
would suffice.

So I turned back reluctantly
to that split-off errant path
and quickly made my way back
to the old familiar one
that was still, still going two ways.
I even pretended that I had a choice.

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