I’m helpless. She knows this and tells me to forget this place of weeping and change. She’s an afternoon shadow. A crack in the wall. A crack in the system. She doesn’t believe in the |Holy Spirit. Once she was a daughter. Now she is a lover. She’s the opposite of me. She’s beautiful and caring
to those who know her well. I don’t know anyone. I don’t know people. All I know of is poverty. The heavenly peace of religious order. Instead, I know the powerful language of the birds. Films. Susan Sontag and Wuthering Heights. But she doesn’t understand this. Why I shake like a fish in danger from being swept from the sea. The fish a hero for service. I know the passages of grief. Those trespassed floodgates. I’ve bathed in the Rome of grief. The happy joys of soon to be forgotten pasta. Wine.
I’ve painted pictures of a mad country in words. That’s my truth. That’s the currency I deal in. It is also my sadness. My madness is my sadness. All my life I’ve searched for a cure. Never coming close. Only to demise and despair. I would have offered my whole life to the supernatural if the madness stopped. Conversation with nails made of flame made of the master of nightmares. Anything to stop the drowning. That fear.
Instead, I have always been the author. The poet, and my struggles have been both public and private. I’ve searched place and time and space. Holistic and the personal.
The history of this has always been sacred and as cold as winter. Just as powerful and present. Burning fire in my hands. Adored and not wanted. Adored and not wanted. Similes and metaphors. They judge. Judge me. Tie me up and down. High and low. I always have to take its temperature. Follow in its footsteps.
Its noise leaves the cells of my heart vulnerable. The door to my soul open wide. My eyes wise to its repeated progress.
*********************************************************************** Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves, "All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren" Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!