The words used to come easy
Like wind upon my brow
like deep frozen memories suddenly thawing in the heat of the sun’s blazing
like the ebb and flow of blood through my veins
and into my heart
so full, and then oh so empty
a microcosm of crashing tides and shifting winds
and deep endless night

I do not think I am awake yet

This weariness that seizes me
that loosens my sinews like fire melts wax
suddenly feeling this burden upon my shoulders that I did not know I carried
Waking only to the klaxons, oblivious to the light
I do not remember seeing the sun, only feeling the faint heat of it through the windows and blinds
now I am shaking off the bewildering disorientation of sudden unexpected sleep
willing myself to open my eyes and rise

Where am I, and where am I going?
Where have I been, and who shall I become?

I do not think there will be anyone waiting for me at the end of my journey
I can hope idly, but I already know what awaits

The city broods silently as the sun sets behind its glistening towers and looming ramparts
I stand still on this empty plain of sullen asphalt
anticipating a poem, a song

How strange that a melody I’ve never heard in my life
a voice that I never knew
might shake loose some errant memory from times long forgotten
from the thousands of miles I’ve crossed back and forth upon this great land
and abandoned hopes and long suppressed dreams come rushing forth
and the turbulence of harrowed mourning churns inside my heart
not knowing which of these things may still come to pass
and which things are gone forever and ever, never to return

Waiting for a touch that will never come
at least not in this lifetime
not in this waking world

The wind brings me to the present
and even in this throng of rapt listeners
I am alone
I have always been alone

The songs and the words end
There is only the senseless noise of the unsleeping city
the wailing sirens, the whirling helicopters overhead blazing with actinic light
The wind dies down
The flow loses its rhythm, comes in broken spurts and sputters
I’m left grasping futilely at their fading keenness
all I”m left with tatters

But we must weave with whatever scattered thread remains
Forge whatever we can even though we only have dross

even if it is but a drear memory of that which shone so brightly in our minds