The Rower

Mist we are, breathed into a span of time,
born from the heart and mind,
of the great I AM.

Cloaked we are, in hide, flesh and bone.
Souls shelter and yet, not home.
I drift along.

And I look, I see a distant shore.
I pull hard against the oars.
Nearer, but not there yet.

To be free, made whole and not alone.
In a land that is my home,
with the ones I love.

So I pull, clad in aching shell,
with a pain just shy of hell,
inside my breast.

So I pull. I pull against these oars,
eyes locked on distant shores.
And I dream of home.

Thom Jankowski