Monday, October 10, 2011
I have not been writing much lately. Considering how much joy it gives me to put my virtual quill to electronic paper, I had to search for a reason. In that search, I discovered to my chagrin, that I may well have been hiding from the blunt and solid reality of living with my infirmity, my inability to make the final leap from terminally ill to terribly uncertain. Sometimes, I feel like the ancient oak: stolid and solid on the outside, yet silently rotting within. Little wonder, I guess, that I would seek to hide in plain sight, and become just A Face in the Crowd.
A Face in the Crowd
I've been hiding again,
Lost in the silent sight
Of those who know me.
I dwell as little more than a wraith,
Haunting the anonymous fog,
Creeping in from the shore-less sea --
Boundless waves of humanity,
Surging about all that is me,
Afloat, adrift in Eternity.
The soft caress of the mist,
Warms my cheek as though kissed,
Enfolds my weary shoulders,
In word-less, whispering embrace.
Dreaming, I see the sun pass --
From blazing dawn to blush at dusk,
While faces, distant and familiar,
Drift past in the golden haze:
Reaching, searching, yet not touching,
My memory holds close the rough,
The rocky reassurance of Earth,
Beneath my seeking feet, now numb
From treading on shadows and pain.
Mourning, I regret my flight,
From the edge of sorrow and fear,
To hide, a shade in penumbra near
The dark, and reside, a vestige,
An echo in search of a refuge.
And though I shout, both strident and loud,
I remain a mere sylph, a face in the crowd.
Posted by Mick at 5:31 PM