Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Somewhere Between

From desolation we have
come, and to desolation
we soon find ourselves
bound, ash collected
upon our wings and settled
against the broad and
tangible expanse of our
shoulders.

From innocence we have
come, and into the fire,
into the storm of this gray
dust, the realization
that all the terrors we
dreamed and awoke
gasping were only child’s
things, only simple reflections
from a clear and unsullied
glass, and now we can
only hope for the curse
of remembrance to fade,
to go into the earth bowed
and sundered in the mind,
all the awful realizations
scraped away with time’s
rough blade.

From frailty in the body,
we have waxed overgrown
and mighty, though our
souls have drained away
like water from a cracked
cup held in shaky hands,
and as we droop further
to earth, spent as old helium
balloons and just as deflated,
we will truly be empty,
and we will grasp foolishly
for things we always knew
to be false, all those easy
roads to redemption,
all those codified words
that in the end change nothing,
those palliatives we loved
to think ourselves too
square jawed to indulge.

Moving from stardust to
spent powder, we fly on
until our wings are too
weak to hold us aloft,
the ash of fallen empires
burning too dense upon
the higher air for us to
see ahead, our faculties
failing and energy run
dry so that, as others
have said, fatigue makes
cowards of us, once mighty
and stupid enough to
think ourselves immune.

8 comments:

drthunder said...

Ouch! Is this as painful as I think it is? Maybe we need to start looking for the pony that lurking under the horse puckie.

Mushster said...

As drthunder says, "ouch".

Fatigue sure does make cowards of us. This one has really hit home.

Firehawk said...

Doc,

I don't think of this one as being that painful or negative, just a reflection of the natural arcs in a life, and the likely results of that arc.

Mush,

Only the James Deans of this world get to go out unscathed and upright. Everyone else takes their lumps and is ground down on the wheel. Again, I didn't mean for it to be a downer. Just an observation, albeit grim.

Bill said...

Firehawk -

"fatigue makes cowards of us"

That it does, as does comfort, safety, familiarity, and several other of the feelings we gather with time.

Hell even James Dean didn't go out unscathed, as from what I've read he had his own demons.

The trick, I think, is to ignore the 'fears' we gather up, and press on anyway... That's my plan at least!

Firehawk said...

Bill,

There's nothing to be done but continue on. We make peace with what we confront inside ourselves and without, then we keep going. We keep at it until the wheels fall off.

Stranger Ken said...

There are some terrific images in this poem, Firehawk, the notion of ash on wings, for example, the deflated helium balloon and the contrast between stardust and spent powder. Your imagination travels to some very rarified places. The overall vision, on the other hand, is apocalyptically bleak.

Bill said...

Firehawk - I "drive it like I stole it" ... life that is... I think sometimes I have stolen the past 30 years or so... turning 21 seemed a remote possibility once.

When the wheels fall off... I'll get a tow truck!

Firehawk said...

Ken,

Thanks for your comments. I started with the kernel of those images in my mind, not really feeling that the poem would turn so "apocalyptic". I suppose it did, though.

Bill,

If only there were body-off restorations for people!

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