final

If I Could Write

If I could write, my words would pour over you
like an infant’s baptism; short and fragrant,
just pure enough for you to pass through

the pearly gates, even though I can’t.
I am jealous of the poets, immured as I listen,
fettered by my own fear. (It is a tyrant).

Once in a secret season, I roamed in the garden
with the courage to kill and faced
the beasts of my hill and serpents of my den.

But the truth is too strong. With a swift charge they raced
past me in the shadows, pulled me down, and rendered
fantasy empty. It slipped out of my grip and escaped.

Those shadows were mine. I surrendered,
already engulfed, broken, and useless to their force.
They chanted victory with roaring thunder.

I could only unfold. Other open seekers gathered in support.
We shared unspoken secrets and darkest desires.
Then - one walked away, and I collapsed from divorce.

If I could write, my words would beckon you higher -
out of hopeless cages and shame-drenched mire.
But I am still there, and I am tired.