I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane. -Edgar Allan Poe
Turning forty (oh so old)
Some may even say vintage
–
Like songs of my youth
Now playing on classic radio stations
–
Like playing outside all day
Occasionally into the night
–
Like going to school
With only the worries of failing a test
–
Like having peers from Mexico
Unafraid to go to school in America
–
Like presuming the world
Is a safe place to live
–
Being in one’s prime
No longer seems a malediction
But a culmination
Of wondrous experiences
Born consisting of pure love
Authentic to the core
As years advanced
Purity fading evermore
–
Saturated with sorrow
Yearning to die
No hope or joy
Pleading “why?”
–
Craving answers
A private war
Coveting a mental repose
Unexpectedly, an open door
–
Petition acknowledged
Hope illuminates the ashen sky
Recovery furnishes
The wings to fly
For so long
A motif of darkness and shame
Flooded her lyrics
Now strength and radiance
Innervate her soul
Permitting only sanguine expression
In the darkness
Of despair
One can lay down
Live in the nothing
Or
One can reach out
Find the switch and flip it
Filling the room
With the light of hope
Two voices
One body
Battling for control
One to live
The other to die
In the arena of the mind
Two voices will enter
Only one will survive
Mortal elation
Lust of loins
Anguish of mind
The poet’s soul
Rips through
The body
A bloody pen
Fashioning a symphony
Of impassioned prose
The poet
A composer of
Profound inspiration
Questions
Everyday questions
With answers
Not to be given
A new day
The same questions
Only death will have
The final
Answer
A call from a long lost friend
Memories and mementos
Being alone and feeling at home
A perfect entrance
A standing ovation
Being loud and proud
That look in one’s eyes
A whispered I love you
Butterfly kisses and first star wishes
Unguardedly walking
Through the brightly lit forest
The melodic sounds of
Trees blowing in the breeze
Life developing and persisting
She overlooked the darkness
Centered among the light
A mistake never to be undone
Escaping one’s demons
Is far easier
With the strength of many
Who can create
A chain link of love
A ladder of compassion
And a compass of hope
B.A. Wilcox © 