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.
I arise from another nightmare
to gray skies and rain,
struggling to understand
the strange synapses
in my brain.
What a relief it is to awaken
and find that what was taken
Though perhaps I am mistaken
and that which I thought I lost
needs to be forsaken
to make room for a
Have I become so encumbered
to certain things
that they are now numbered
in my dreams?
I know not
only that the difference
between waking and slumber
is often not as clear
as it seems.
Was life so unyielding
for you to fall from your office building?
Did you cry or did you sing,
angel with a broken wing?
What caused you to take that final fatal flight,
like a wayward broken and tattered kite,
storm-tossed with no steady string,
o angel with a broken wing?
What lies pounded inside your head,
that hounded you, said you’d be better off dead?
This life is such a fragile thing,
dear angel with a broken wing.
I know you only by what the newspaper said,
a few lines on the page that I read.
I wish I could have done something,
bright angel with a broken wing.
Though it is too late for you,
there are so many who wish to fly too.
I can only hope these simple words will bring
hope to other angels with broken wings.
For you see, my Icarus of shattered dreams,
this world is not as lonely as it seems.
It is a strange and beautiful thing,
but every one of us is an angel with a broken wing.
In a waking world not as awake as it seems,
my sleep is disturbed by disturbing dreams
that follow me into the light of the following day,
strange companions to accompany me on my way.
Beneath fiery trees, I am aflame,
afraid of ghosts and fears I cannot name,
passing through the fallen leaves of this Fall,
I am left wondering if I am leaving at all.
on the precipice
of a revelation
a fall will follow
unless wisdom is
the climb to the vista
broken wings soar
high above the
they catch me unawares in the light of day
gathering around my head like storm clouds
pelting my face with cold drops of what i dreamt
and i remember awake in pieces what before i only knew when i was asleep
tomorrow and the next will be the same
this vertigo when night meets day
when memories of Morpheus
rise to the surface from the dark depths like fish
with mouths open wide to the sky
i am awakened in the early morning by the metal clanging of trash cans
it is that time again
the day when we put our refuse on the curb
with the sure knowledge that when we return home
the can will be empty
our garbage will have disappeared
a slight sweet smell in the air the only remnant of the garbage truck’s passing
within i find myself hoping for such a day
when the fetid stuff of broken dreams is swept up
put in a black plastic bag
and hauled away
to rot in some distant landfill
upon which a future subdivision will grow
very different than
too much like
the storm has passed
i am spent
another night of dreams
full of regret
i awake so exhausted
i wonder if i have slept
i can’t make sense of the world within
there is such a disconnect
what i do while awake is never enough
i’m still working on the same project
with no finish line in sight
caught in the now and not yet
i keep putting words to paper
but cannot seem to forget the lives unlived
troubled by the unknown and a solitary mindset
still seeking that place where i can finally rest
free from dreams that mock my choices
and the faith i confess
all i do and have done is never enough
why am still so full of so many regrets
lives i could have lived with lovers i have met
still trying to make sense of what i will never understand
caught in this web of the now and not yet