The Endless Day

© 1996 Rob Krabbe

Mercifully, I don't connect with some seasons of my life as if they were reality; more of a ghost memory of another existance.  This poem, I feel more than the words betray, but more as an echo of a time past, that I gladly, with some melencholy, consider well past.  Those who share the road of, for now let's call it "emotional/mental enhancement," will no doubt resonate with the tambor of such verse.  Those who don't, don't, and be glad of it.  Unlike some, I celebrate all those who just don't understand where I come from sometimes.  It means one less person darkens the landscape through times such as the ones I find in my older journals.  Good to pour through sometimes, to consider fresh, my blessings today!

 

I quickly pass

the empty road,

that sees me walk

my eyes bent low.

The clouds lay down

so hard upon its kiss,

The ground lays

its darkness

further still.

Beckon me, I

implore you

foul spirit,

to follow.

I cross and

cheaply look away.

To your truth

and your promise

of peace of heart and soul.

Lies!

That

my broken mind

would fade away!

On my own, I know

I'll listen soon anyway.

To travel down

the path of stone,

through the fog

labored horizon there;

lay me down on hills

made just to die.

On my own?

no . . . this day

will not end

on my life.

Given freely away,

this kindred soul,

my life, as such.

Locked tightly away.

Ours to breath and suffer

each and every endless day.