Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
Staring at faith
Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
The sound of deep
Calling to deep.
Repressed feelings buried by Time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave:
"Here lies the child now grown.
His hopes and dreams
Dashed to pieces.
This is where the child died."
I often hear the Mystic Keeper
Calling from night
And tradition calling from Artificial light
As I run through scorched Barren
Fields of doubt,
Walking barefoot over these Coals
Crouching low
To hide my eyes
As I run
And as I hide
From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.
When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea.
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
Seeds of religious platitudes.
And then there is the ready Reflection
Of the looking glass
That often tricks the Beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
Hiding the crumbling
Cracks of age–
The threshold where
Sanity meets its end.
Isolation has become
A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
Into the heart of hearts.
Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional Prosthetics--
Phantom pain
When nothing is There.
But in the midst of these Devastations
I am learning to take--
Howbeit reluctantly--
The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
Hope to build
A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
Than no control at all.