These are the years of my discontent
This is my consolation that leaves me disconsolate
This is my satisfaction that leaves unsatisfied
This is my rest that leaves me restless
This is the love that leaves me lustful
This is my struggle between running and staying
This is my sitting in cars in empty lots, all the words of your compulsion hanging (forbidden) between us.
This is my calculated risk; these are the consequences that catch me by surprise.
These are my rushing waters; this, the shore of my regret.
This present is the heart of all my misgivings
This, the tension between my anchor and my escape
This. Me unfinish’d, gasping in this breathing world; breathing in this gasping world.
This, my wandering tread, my sojourner spirit, my never-ending journey. My lost and never-foundness. My with but never of. My here but never now.
This is the whisper of my displacement
These are the years of my discontent.
[This wrote itself, months back, as I sat on the edge of this river at the Wild Goose Festival 2013.]