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The Rest of the Way



If you haven't found them
by, say, twenty-five,
you won't find them.
You won't find them.
They are out there, looking.
You are out there, looking.
And then they stop.
And then you stop.
They haven't found you.
You haven't found them.
They make some compromise
to take them the rest of the way.
You make some compromise
to take you the rest of the way.
Might you have found them
had you been better at looking,
had they been better at looking,
had you been luckier?
Sing, friend, of the will-o-wisps
that decorated your passage
through the fog of the damned
with flashes of distraction,
with illusions of hope.
Sing of the stars
that twinkled on high,
that lied, that lied, that lied.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.