Writer
The sun in glorious orange pink,
rises in my rear view mirror.
I’m driving into darkness,
with the promise of day,
behind me.
I know it’s there,
but I must have courage,
to go forward even though,
I can’t see every pothole,
every crack,
the depth of the curve.
Soon,
one will pass the other,
and while I think on this,
the pink of light has spread,
an arch, behind, to the sides,
until light meets light,
and the night is gone.
The moon reflects off the snow,
Into my bedroom,
Enticing me as though it were the sun
To think, to ponder, to plan.
I don’t recognize the sound,
Of my own breathing.
I’m in a vacuum.
Don’t ask me how I feel.
I feel nothing.
I feel everything.
It cancels out,
To silence.
“I think therefore I am”,
I exist,
Hung in space,
And time,
In someone’s mind,
no substance.
No that’s not it,
Filling a void,
With my name on it,
A vapor,
A whisper,
A secret,
Spoken about,
Concealed,
But exposed to each and every,
day.
They kept us in the dark;
covered so we would not be afraid,
Rules to govern
because they knew without the walls we would roam free,
right over the edge and not
even see the danger;
not believe it was there.
But now the walls are eroded,
pocked full of holes,
no longer sustaining the shield.
Freedom feels like exposure,
Uncertainty,
Limitless troubles.
Can we go back to safety?
No, we can only erect new restraints,
Built by what we brought with us,
From the blind days,
Not walls, fences.
Boundaries in wisdom we declare,
We won’t go beyond.
We will be islands,
In the midst of anarchy.
Holding the ground we stand on.
Tear the complaint apart,
Like junk mail.
Before it breaths life.
into words,
Whips up substance,
into choking dust,
irritating wind.
That creeps into peace.
Separates.
Divides.
Better to be,
Silent.
A lump of clay,
That reveals,
After being prodded,
And pressed upon,
Pushed,
And stretched,
Resistance turned,
Pliable,
Amorphous yielded to,
Shape,
Placed upright,
As it was meant to be,
A work of Art.
