Mercy

At some point I became
a rock. A mountain.
I didn’t mean to. It’s
not me. I move. I roll.

Yet arriving here,
to the land I know,
all my movement
stopped.

The howling drive for more
depth, more sky, more seas
seized up, took root and
fastened me where
you don’t want to be.

You crave desert light, hot blue
streams of people, dreams of
wailing sirens pulling you
out of this greysky shore where
mountains erode.

How long can we strain on this point
of staying or going, rocking or rolling,
dreaming or remaining before we break
apart?

Will mercy give way or we
give way to mercy so we
fall into each other
again?

by ian boisvert