When I was a child, I wasn’t
Told, that at this point in life
I’d feel so damned old.
I think there must be more
To life and living,
Than the cache of sorrow,
Or the borrowed act of forgiving.
Of Corpse’s light and cast shadows,
Or half-grey lies, when the truth
Is that he had no alibis.
There must be something more beyond
The will to write, despite hate and fear;
To set things right, though all be wrong,
For the past is gone, as if it never were.
He’s gone and made himself a ghost —
A shade of nothing, by being
Everything that I despise the most.
There is a lesson here worth seeing.
There has to be something else to find,
Beyond the binding claws
Of time, or else what’s the point
In pausing to think, or feel?
At what point do these wounds
Come full circle, and heal?
There must be more, and sterner stuff
Inside, the steel core where
The softer soul can hide…
Taking refuge, or solace, in knowing
That for all these trials and injustice,
I won’t stop growing older…just colder.
I have to believe there’s more to life
Than this, then,
Or quit asking or searching
In the empty, lie-strewn mind-fields
Of unfaithful, dishonest and unkind men.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2007