handfuls of air

Why do I keep moving?

To keep the shell from hardening,

the shell I inherited from my father.

He once knew how to leave it;

now I'm afraid he's stuck for good.

And it makes me sad

to know he did that to himself.

I think he was afraid of freedom,

afraid of his youthful energy

and the yawning chasm of choice,

and Jesus was a comfortable cage

to rest in until death,

cozy parameters he tried to fit me in,

but i found a crack and squeezed out.

Yes, the wilderness was scary

for a time, but when you've got enough distance

you look back over your shoulder

and you don't turn to salt,

and you see how small your shell had been,

how needlessly restricting,

and you laugh until your ribs hurt,

and you walk on.