The journey

With this poem, I was bitching about how life isn’t fair, but musing about the beauty of living. It’s a weird bit of bipolar behaviour on my part. I think it’s good. Not much praise I’m afraid.

Travelling long enough

Just when I am at the point of forgetting the wilderness

And my life has become a coddling pot of tenderness

I find myself wondering and caring, searching for something else.

I walk my feet sore to the edge of the forest

Through jagged mountains, mists, fogs, bogs with frogs eyeing me saucily,

And frost,

And there it is again.

That wretched desert sand,

As the cycle goes round and round,

To that point once again with my outstretched hand

Beseeching to nothing and none,

Pouring out my grief to the deaf ground.

I’ve reached the edge of the sky,

Still, an endless expanse of land…

Isn’t that just grand?

My life went in a straight line,

Endured for what I sought and grieved for what I couldn’t find.

Despite assurances that it will all be fine,

I think on the life that was mine.

Of all that was sweet, what was brine and alkaline.

Your spirit is borne in and breeds fire,

Wherever you go there are scorch marks,

I hope that even when my torch is out,

I have left behind at least some sparks.

As my soul waits in the boat,

My gold in the oarsman’s pocket keeping me afloat,

I look, mesmerized by the moving water,

That moves of its own accord.

Waves placidly coursing towards my destiny,

Seem to show me the ripples I left behind me in my journey.

I know they remember my name,

But in 100 years, nothing, to me, and it will not be the same.

My story is caught in the wind and whispered in my ear.

It is not as I lived nor how I would have told it.

My hope is that my philosophy has not been washed away,

The way the water diluted my view of all beneath.

Will I ever enter the cycle again?

A cycle or a spiral? Now that is something to consider.

I want to make some changes,

But to what end?

If I send poisonous fumes into the air,

Destroy things with no remorse or intention to mend,

And spill innocent blood,

All that is precious and worthy carried away in a putrid flood.

If I go back will I remember I was dead?

Will I be a different person with a totally different head?

Will I deserve to be shot in the head or go peacefully in bed?

What destiny and circumstance give us

Can either bless or curse us,

No matter how we scream and cry and fuss,

Nothing will change so you may as well focus.

My heart tells me that my strength is not in wickedness,

Nor my soul wrought in righteousness.

I am satisfied with what is just,

Peace and love the nectar after which we should lust,

In a universe we cannot fully trust.

Try your best,

The universe will do the rest.

I wonder if that is for the best…

Louella Mahabir

17th October, 2011

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~ by louella001 on December 21, 2011.

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