Moving On

The roar for justice escapes in a
thin whine – perplexing the
astonished statues, entwined with ivy
vines – flowered in the spring.
Heady, impetuous – I shriek my horror
in hopes I may be heard – even understood,
as silvery bubbles froth upwards, this
sea pulls me under with a playful tug
and burns my eyes – seeking truth –
Hapless, I flounder – wonderment at
how cold my fingers have become
– tucked tightly in a fist as they
were – how surprising, indeed.
Frantically I scour myself raw –
edgy soapstone to cleanse the filth
– still I am not clean
– still, I am not clean
I sound my cry again and again –
awaiting the herald of my salvation,
a trumpeter to announce redemption
and then peace
– peace
outside my mind and within my soul
– peace
with dark rings beneath my eyes
– peace
gently lay my head to rest until
my face warms with the sun’s comfort
– but dark reigns in this corner
tropism conquers and the will wanes
– all blended in a despairing lullaby
rocking me to sleep – and to dream,
I am left a dollop – unkempt and tattered.
This elixir brings no reprieve, the torment
intrudes my every secret, tossing about
wishes and dreams with malice –
to hurt –
to destroy –
the sun gives no comfort, its rays are
lost – its windows broken and left with
thick boards and rusty nails to
hug them closed –
like a mother’s arms, wet with
my childhood tears – soft and kind as
she let her fingers play through my
tousled hair – quietly whispering “it’ll be ok”
“it’ll be ok”
but lightning flashed and the thunder
roared – far mightier than my own, as
I stand here proclaiming abuse and
obstinence at your apathy – stone-faced
serpent, my roar thinly accuses you – and
you do not hear –
– cannot –
Your face has turned, the wind blows too
strong to head this way – to this place
that I have already ventured
– pushed by concerted effort
my eyes water with salty resolve
– but not for you, not for me
for how can I cry for you,
when I cannot cry for myself.
Here, my domain – a haven of thought
– of broken things, some rusty with
age, some shattered by neglect –
but here, in piles – sharp with
metal teeth – waiting to devour me –
I would smash myself against these
hungry machines in defiance
– truth or dare?
I would –
I would prefer truth, to wrap
my aching limbs, weary from journeys down
the mazes you construct –
– veiling honesty and in turn
robbing me of respect – it lay in a
dirty puddle with mud pies of a younger
– Robbed –
Unfulfilled, empty – hollow, your love still
echoes – such that I  cry aloud to answer
with jubilation at your return
– but you are lost, and yet close enough
that I can pluck a hair from your
head –
I long for peace – I have walked
too long, my feet throb with each pounding
upon the road – paved black with lies.
– Where is the sun?  Where IS the sun?
Holy – I let myself free, unfettered I
taste sour, jacketed in my denial – the
wind howls.
I am not rejoiced – but shunned for
these efforts – my name carried with
a harboring ill.
– sickness pervades with a thick
sludge in my gullet – I am left
with little choice but to wretch – to
purge this fanciful daydream and return
to the Church for absolution,
praying for my soul, like a fervent believer
I cannot be saved, will not –
saved to be condemned, my objection
glares brightly on my sleeve – a beacon
of my funeral desires – no heavenly gates
await my arrival – only peace.
The shrill call, I respond – unchallenged,
unexamined, unworthy… I sink lower
still in this inescapable demise until
the moss covers my mouth and I cannot
think aloud –
– walk forward, travel the un-chosen path
All paths are the same when you are
blind. Blinded, my empty sockets bring joy
that I cannot see where I have stumbled –
but pain that I cannot see where I may
have gone.
– All because of the cursed wind
that keeps you from me
– because I do not have the strength
to call out loudly – so you may find me.
Blessed sight have been restored
and the path whirls beneath me
like a cotton-candy explosion.
– You are lost to me
I refuse to search you out,
my voice hoarse from sorrow –
I cannot remember your face,
or your sweet voice,
– just the wind that pushes me onward,
past the hungry machines and broken things,
– out of the dark –
I hear now, my sounding horn piercing
in the cold, crisp morning air –
announcing my arrival in peace.
– Eric W. Hinton
– 02/13/95

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Poetry and writings