Halos

Thoughts on the pain of uncertainty in rhyming free-form. Most powerful when read aloud.

I found a tree there.

Dying.

Knotted, gnarled, gnashing, almost.

But it was there.

Trying.

Pitiful. Would’ve felt better to be merciful.

But I couldn’t. I shouldn’t, I told myself.

It’s not my right.

It’ll get better.

How long do we spend wrenching the fetters?

When there’s no light?

When we’re certain an end is in sight,

Only to find that the brilliant, shining beam above

Is nothing more than a halo?

Is it then?

The question is like a disease, like a filthy pest

Struggling to crawl under our skin until it fits in

Effortlessly and whispers, “Again?”

Apparently.

Relentlessly, every second.

Draw up a shield, shut it out

Until you don’t feel the joy

Of that annoying little voice whispering

That you might be falling away from yourself

Toward herself, only to stall, and double-take,

And try to shake the feeling that it’s just not what you thought

You were fighting for. I think I’m still fighting for it,

Heaving, barely breathing as I beg fate

To stop biting my hand every time I have the strength

To reach more than an inch in length from this prison.

And I make the prison. It’s as true as it is played-out that

The decision is mine. I can keep fighting, or fade out,

Waiting until the roses and wine are shaded out

Into blurry remnants of a dead and gone feeling

That leaves you reeling until it leaves you alone.

I could learn a lot from that tree.

Not having to choose, or wonder

Whether there’s something worth it under

The wanting and wishing and hope-nots and begging

That love stories have the nerve

To call “questions” and “life lessons.”

I could just let it die.

Like a branch that’s seen too much of heaven.

Dead.

But not wondering.