I grow old alone,
those who may have grieved me
gone into that unknown
some call Heaven, Paradise,
Hell or whatever, anything other
than Death
Death, a cruel word,
metaphor for a ghost, last spotted
peering over the shoulder,
such as observes in my mirror
how desperate I've become to get
some sleep
Sleep, harbinger
of dreams, good, bad or too ugly
to ever contemplate
wherever alphabet lanterns
over my head insist on spelling out
my darkness
Darkness, companion
to personal space if sure to keep
a (very) discreet distance,
since it would not do to imply
so much as a tenuous connection
with its devils
Devils, such secrets,
running rings around me, less able
let gather dust as once
I would, mind-body-spirit loath
to invoke heated family discussions
with repercussions...
Repercussions, haunts
of bygone days, years of answering
to outward appearances,
inner self all but suffocating
in a closet I let few in, among whom
no one to love
Love, always so near
yet so far, on the tip of my tongue,
but at the last minute
struck dumb by stereotypes
forcing public opinion down my throat,
all but choking me
Ah, but what’s that I hear?
voices out of nowhere reminding me
of words said, soon forgot,
(and to whom) now thanking me
for helping them turn corners, find hope
get a life...
Alone, yes, but lonely no more;
invisible hands warmly shaking mine,
re-awakening sensibilities
half-forgotten, repudiating despair
of a life with little to show for it, nothing
much to tell
Ah, but we all have tales to tell,
how life marries us, for better or worse,
successes and failures,
loves lost and won, dreams come true
and others left to cry ourselves to sleep over,
come a new dawn
Dawn, spreading its light over me,
feeding me such hopes as I hadn't dared,
reassuring me of 'live' ghosts
always on hand to advise me on making
wiser, kinder choices, urging I but listen out
for You-Me-Us
Copyright R. N. Taber 2020
[Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]
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