Monday, February 04, 2013

Mud, Mirror, Mud

Too tired to read, too tired to watch television, almost too tired to think as I lay in my hospital bed since Friday night, I drifted away from the people, the pokes, and the pain that surrounded me as the shining fog surrounds dark pines on a bright, misty morning in the north woods. Light upon that fuzzy sea, adrift without a rudder or mast, the gentle current carried me, to dreamland's soft reality.

I journeyed far upon my pillow. I saw and felt and thought. I heard and smelled and touched. I laughed and screamed and cried. How I moved about I cannot say, nor do I know who was my guide. Did a gentle hand steer my course? Did a teacher or mentor or father or mother silently, invisibly, lead the way? Perhaps, or maybe it was just me -- searching and leading with my heart.

Upon my return home, last night, I once again dreamed. What I recall of the dream is below. Take from it what you will. I have not yet determined all that it means for me. Dreams are like that...yeah, they are!


Mud, Mirror, Mud

I dreamt I walked into a cave,
To see an eerie sight.
Although it was far underground,
It glowed with eldritch light.

The cavern floor was oddly warm,
And soft as river mud.
I felt surprise, but no alarm,
Until I heard a thud.

I turned to face the way I'd come,
The opening was shut!
As if a door was closed by some
Enormous force, but what?

The light grew brighter further in,
A frigid, greenish glow.
An invitation to come in?
I knew I had to go...

The room was only steps ahead,
I entered without pause.
I felt no fear or doubt or dread,
My heart did not give cause.

The room was covered, like the floor,
With mud, a dark green-brown.
As was the ceiling and the door,
The same, both up and down.

I noticed something on the wall,
I stared in disbelief:
It was my portrait, very small --
In muddy bas relief!

My image turned and looked at me!
It spoke, in whispered voice:
"I've things to show you, you must see.
You do not have a choice..."

One-by-one portraits appeared,
On ev'ry muddy plane.
Their whispered voices subtly seared
Their meanings in my brain.

I saw every hurt I'd done,
I witnessed deed and slight.
The times I should have helped, but run,
Portrayed there, in my sight.

At first, in anger, loud I screamed,
But ended with a sigh.
From my red eyes, hot liquid streamed,
As I began to cry.

Where teardrops touched upon the floor,
A tiny spot was free,
And shining brightly, more and more,
A mirror gleamed at me.

Something had changed, was not the same...
Through puffy eyes I'd see:
My image in that muddy frame,
Was smiling happily!

I knew I would be there for years,
I knew I had to stay,
Until I cried enough hot tears,
To wash the mud away.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

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