if not for you
long ago i would
into the sun
blown away by
to fall into
but you have
held me here
so when my
wings of dreams
begin to melt
and i am fading
you and the
that is us
i am awakened by dreams
of wolves, animal and otherwise
the sound of fading screams
devolves into my waking eyes
this terror is stronger than it seems
involves much more of my daily disguise
and takes me to where violence teems
though i resolve to let my fears subside
of what may come
wake me in the
grayness of early morn
and i am caught yet again
in the trembling space
my shadowed room
i watched the
scatter the bright light
of the afternoon sun
and somehow i could not
find it in myself to
accept their warm
know how much
weight to give
whether they are simply
the snakes of my
or the poisonous
strike of a future
here and now
my eyes still
blurred from a
and without the clarity
of the lens lost in life’s
clutter on the table at the end
of my scattered bedclothes
the cry of the morning
dove filtering through
the window is somehow
an appropriate welcome
to new light and
a fitting farewell
to that which
Sometimes I sit here with my eyes closed and watch the trembling light of the morning sun play across my eyelids.
It is a movie made by a star, filled with scenes of wonder where bright dancers chase away the troubled dreams of the night.
When I open my eyes, I find my breathing has changed.
To succumb as did Socrates,
poisoned by hypocrisies,
and disregarded philosophies,
must I make peace with my mediocrities?
Am I enslaved to Euripedes,
a servant to Sophocles,
a traveler in tragedies,
fated to a future of futility?
Or like the ill-conceived bumble bee,
a waxy-winged Icarus cast into the sea,
or the golden-tongued Demosthenes,
will truth forever my guiding sun be?
You’re not glass
so get off your ass.
No, I haven’t misspoken.
Yes, I know we’re all broken.
But it’s time to end your love affair
with the label Fragile: Handle with Care.
You see, you’re stronger than you think.
The fire inside you shines through the chinks
where the pain of this place has made your heart break
But make no mistake,
you may be cracked, but you’re not shattered
and the dreams you thought were in tatters
have become a kaleidoscopic collage of a thousand parts
as they shine out in the jigsaw pieces of your fiery heart.
I prefer the older definitions. They seem less negative, more nuanced.
pine with love or grief.
“she still languished after Richard”
assume or display a sentimentally tender or melancholy expression or tone.
“when a visitor comes in, she smiles and languishes”
This then is an ode to the languishing. It is a place where one has arrived to find broken dreams, unfinished projects, hoped for successes all for naught.
Mr. Hughes spoke of holding fast to dreams, and mine remain close. Yet, I still feel like a broken winged bird that cannot fly, confused, shot from the sky by the unrealized.
Perhaps the time for holding fast is done.
I wonder if languishing is simply another word for letting go.
I do not like this place.
I am afraid.
I do not want to be labeled lazy.
And yet action for action sake is “sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
The tendency is to move! move, damnit!
Who or what determines a life’s success?
Do I still have a good heart, as she told me long ago? Perhaps I will ask her that today.
As my tongue lies thick in my mouth, while I try to learn this new language of languish.
when the sky is fire
be not afraid
of the wind
the coming storm
the dark clouds
touched by flame
of the rising sun
will water an
earth that is
and you too who
the burning sky
with dry dreams
shall find them
wet with rain
Elegiac is not always silent. Often I find that I have begun again to pay attention to its whisperings in my inner ear.
They are so subtle.
Yet the words resound loudly within, reverberating against Id’s fragility. They feed the loudspeaker of negativity in my head.
I am pretty hard on myself. I set impossibly high expectations and tumble to the inevitable crash when they are not reached. My mind cycles through the litany of what ifs.
I stand outside myself and critique my latest interaction. Did I mispeak? Why did I act like that? Why I am not where I think I should be?
I was not good enough.
I am never good enough.
I cannot let what happened simply be.
I have confused discontent with stagnancy.
I am not gentle with myself.
My dreams have become a weight upon my soul.
I am, as Langston described, a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.