Plain as Day

Bursts of clarity like shackles

The staggering light of opportunity freezes bones

Yet I know it is possible to walk open paths

Intimidated by those who made their maps early and can navigate deep waters or torrential forests

Without harm or setback

The more we watch the slower we move

And then 20 years into careers finding that we’ve wondered lost in the land we’ve never known

The dream of standing tall through life is a simple direction to youth

And to those who lived a little it’s an affront to pride

“They wouldn’t understand”

But the illogical theory is that of the defence wishing to justify fear while wishing to be free of it

“Pity me for I have never been told the way!”

And who ever was?

We either learn to keep on or learn to occupy the cell

I find I’m swaying in the doorway

Living days of bright decisions, taking charge of my situation

And living days of stagnation, unoccupied like a breathing pause

I never thought I would understand the complication

But it lives beside me at night

The “Don’t do anything hard” impulse,

Becoming as delicious as a Rocket for dinner,

Until I realize it would slowly be my death.

Written by: Sarah C Louise

 

Thanks for Poets, all

Thank you to the efforts of the dead or currently aching, who wrote in their times of possibility, instead of exploring the various ways the dead can be living.
I wonder at all the caves of disparity and confusion that exist beyond my own ancient network.
We suffer especially from being led astray: past grottos of glimpses of prizes into yet another stinky bog of unpaid exhaustion.
We hold death’s warty hand unknowingly, because the touch is familiar and appears steadying,
and art is the only medicine for operative removal:
One passage of Angela Carter releases its grip;
One phrase of William Blake casts the demonic clutch forevermore;
One story of Margaret Atwood teaches us of the methods for revenge;
Then, one passage of our own buries it deep under lively soil.
And in its stead, we are free to roam amongst creation as creators,
An occupation we must claim defiantly me as our predeceasing Giants graciously accomplished.
Thank you to the gods of words, love, air, night, mystery, wallowing, and song.
I buried my death in the alley last week and will never again feel wrong.

Written by Sarah C Louise