No One Follows; Original Poetry by Thomas Martin Saturday


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A solitary set of footsteps cut into the sand
at low tide
infinite into the distance
none return.

A lone Eagle on the hunt whirls
in that perfect circle
as below
a single tree stands
an obelisk
in a late fall cornfield

discovery of the necessity
pushes me forward
where I look back,
vacant space
life on an empty stomach

no one follows.

Confronting the self
wanting to take it out and wash it
as my index finger running over something sharp
protruding
into a lost memory

cutting long and deep,
the stuff of demons and despair:

no one follows.

It is that thing that must be done
in pursuit of me
yet finding something higher,
a worthy contest in contradiction of

the oppression of another
a victim of ignorant fear,
so I stand with the victimized.

We hear a voice saying
lo, I am with you always,
see a great light
a yoke thrown off
neither fearing nor despairing
life’s journey ennobled,
complete
in the great circle.

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