Your brown skin
Is the promise of redemption;
Time erases whiteness.
Your elegant stride
overshadows my gaucheness;
Your pride is your power.
Your hand in mine
Is resilient: strength grips shame;
Your reality is my sin.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Pockets of Life
It is hard to write and I hardly write. Life is cold and hard and hazy round the edges; a gentle reminder of what I expected but haven’t yet found, and a small nudge in the direction of despair. I cling to a story I insist on believing, determined that the myths of my youth are not entirely lost in the shadows of reality. There will be love, I tell my soul, and it nods slowly back, clinging to my belief with the naivety of a child.
I live between pockets of air, with pressure spelling different scenarios out in my head. I can take it or leave it, depending on the scent, but the choices once so endless are stiflingly small and I invariably wish for the grass on the other side.
I can see the future before me; my before, seeable future stretching out, slightly curved downhill is the passage of time in my mind. Despite my loneliness, I am a dependent. I do not stand on my own two feet, but dance on the feet of life like a child too small to go alone. Life and I stride round the room, he claustrophobic and weighed down by my fear; me clinging tightly to one more illusion of hope, aware of my audience.
The torment of memories follows my walk and I acknowledge with each step: we are a product of our history; the result of our damage; we are victims of our experiences, whether good or bad. There is a way to be stronger, to walk towards the light, but the shape of our breath spells the song of our soul and the freedom we may find rings with the memory of its need.
Now, my ideas come in short bursts of song that fill my head like a rage and I run to write them out of my mind like a prescription for peace. It is a dark place I return to, but I find myself going eagerly, hoping for inspiration and pleading for the light. I will walk the path of my history if redemption lies at its end. I am not one to wait patiently, and I charge forward to search for my soul amongst the graves of dead mornings. Now I drink my tea in the warmth of inside, with memories of sun-drenched dawns a distant design of my dreams. I wait for reality and dive in head first. It may be painful, but a soulless existence poses more agony than facing the truth.
I live between pockets of air, with pressure spelling different scenarios out in my head. I can take it or leave it, depending on the scent, but the choices once so endless are stiflingly small and I invariably wish for the grass on the other side.
I can see the future before me; my before, seeable future stretching out, slightly curved downhill is the passage of time in my mind. Despite my loneliness, I am a dependent. I do not stand on my own two feet, but dance on the feet of life like a child too small to go alone. Life and I stride round the room, he claustrophobic and weighed down by my fear; me clinging tightly to one more illusion of hope, aware of my audience.
The torment of memories follows my walk and I acknowledge with each step: we are a product of our history; the result of our damage; we are victims of our experiences, whether good or bad. There is a way to be stronger, to walk towards the light, but the shape of our breath spells the song of our soul and the freedom we may find rings with the memory of its need.
Now, my ideas come in short bursts of song that fill my head like a rage and I run to write them out of my mind like a prescription for peace. It is a dark place I return to, but I find myself going eagerly, hoping for inspiration and pleading for the light. I will walk the path of my history if redemption lies at its end. I am not one to wait patiently, and I charge forward to search for my soul amongst the graves of dead mornings. Now I drink my tea in the warmth of inside, with memories of sun-drenched dawns a distant design of my dreams. I wait for reality and dive in head first. It may be painful, but a soulless existence poses more agony than facing the truth.
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