Dark night and endless day,
Where gifts along the way,
Are seldom what they seem.
Our tenuous controls,
Of life's most precious threads,
Reside within our heads,
And reach not to our souls.
For sleeping mind plays tricks:
Like dreams of punting on
The River Acheron,
And swimming in the Styx...
Wherever we may go,
Upon that inner shore -
What we cannot ignore,
None else can ever know.
For in that waking dream,
On paths in darkest mind,
The truths we think we find,
Are seldom what they seem.
Mick McKellar
April 2008
Found this poem lurking in a forgotten directory with a couple of other poems from a darker time in my life. I was struggling with class discrimination and an urge to seek acceptance in a world that viewed me as unworthy.
Mick
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