To my young eyes
To my innocent heart
I remember the world was a blueprint on canvas
It was a dream undreamt
It was a song unsung
As if in a crib, I looked about me at the stars of the cities
Constellations of people hung about
Their wounds and aches, joys and laughter, were the myths
Like the Zodiacs, groups of these people
Could define a person
Yet believing myself undefined, I strode out from shelter
Untamed, I ventured to find my purpose
A purpose that would shake the mountain
Rain down the ash of winter
Smother the pits below my dreams
Cull the nightmares that stoke my fears
I waited, I waited
I tell you the waiting became my purpose
Finally, there, in the clutch of time, I found my calling
I will tell you all of the waiting
I will tell you, don't wait...
Don't wait for the door to ring
or the latch to unlock
Do not wait for the song to play
or the band to sit
Open the door
Be the composer
Be the pilot of your dreams, be the chieftain, be the god
While waiting for what I could be
I saw everyone else become
With the zeal of their hearts
I saw them build, I saw them grow
This one built a nest
That one stitched a doll
Now the doll's a mannequin and my waiting missed the change
I waited for the waiting to end
I waited for the wanting to decide
I waited for foe or friend
I waited until
there was nothing left inside
Where is the zeal of my heart
The timbre of my soul
I lost the sight, the sound, the love
because waiting took its toll...
Ultimately, I started this poem because I wanted a poem title that started with the letter 'Z' since I didn't have one. That's important, LOL. So important I got inspired, hopped off to a grand beginning, then got lost and saved this poem in a draft. That was May 2021. I was lost then, I realize.
The "timbre of my soul" had quieted. In mourning, it was still.
Yet today, January 21st, 2022, I managed to finish this poem. I opened it up, felt the passion in the words and just went at it. I'm quite satisfied not only with this poem but with the fact I finished it. Finishing, or even starting, longer poems has been a struggle for me.
Writing has been a struggle, all in all. But I will not let the fire die.
That is the one thing I owe myself.
Keep writing. Even if I am starving, in pain, destitute, heartbroken, wrathful, sick, lonely, terrified, abused, blind, crippled, persecuted, villainized, disillusioned, cheated, imprisoned, shackled, insane, exiled, abandoned, lost, confused, desperate, paralyzed, dying, I will do it. I will keep writing.