The Journey Back
Poem for Day 288 – 20151016
I. The Descent
I was called to author words,
but I would not embrace the path.
Madness was all I could relate,
and this I could not write to a page.
Would the world want to know
of a person who struggled so?
Insanity was not in vogue,
and to this I could not console.
Perfection was my only path,
to prove myself worthy of all.
The bill came due for my soul,
and I could not deliver in return.
Mistakes were okay for others,
life embraced by the fragile.
This I did not allow for myself
as I struggled to carry on.
I used to want a quiet death,
one in which I would fade away.
Life disposed after the struggle,
forgotten by those who stayed behind.
I'd be put up on the shelf,
or stowed away in the grave.
The only thing I asked of life
was to erase me from memory.
II. In the Depths
The prose flowed in response
to the demand to write everyday.
The letters sought a connection
to a world still estranged.
Friendships were formed in those years,
some still linger to this day.
Too often the madness did intrude,
and those brave souls carried on.
I sought beauty in possessions plenty,
the oddities filled some space.
Sadly the echoes still resounded
across the gulf consuming all.
To hold without letting go
became my way of grounding life.
This only achieved the mountains
of cold debris above my head.
The end beckoned to me everyday,
whispered cold promises of relief.
Nothing would be better than everything
blinded by sorrow and anger.
Still I plodded on, duty called to me,
things to do and commitments made.
Continuing was all I could do
while I waiting for the death's release.
III. The Journey Back
My words are not longer stilted
by walls erected to protect the world.
More of the self is let go
to illustrate the breadth of life.
The madness I might have felt
is held to task to illustrate
the common threads of living found
in the hearts and minds of other ones.
I find myself in humble mirrors,
reflecting back the deep flaws.
They were not indictments of a man,
instead they only show where I've been.
Roads traveled by too few other people,
but enough to convey that I am not alone.
They echo back sincere thanks
of my spilled ink shared with the world.
The end grows yet closer still,
but now it is by time's wheel turning round.
The reaper will have his due at long last,
but until then I have much to share with you.
I find comfort now that a crowd may form
to bid me farewell as I retire.
Remember me as the earth is turned,
the journey back has many forms.
© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.