Waiting For The Crack
Ok, so I am not exactly sure where this came from, but it started at the end and I had to find all the words that came before the last image and this is what came out. It’s odd how words come, images, shapes of poems. I am actually kind of in a happy place just now, yet here I am writing about cold, the freezing of the mind and heart in hopelessness. I guess maybe I have been near here, when the guilt and the dark, black water rises in my mind and all you can see is every last thing you’ve done wrong, all the people you have hurt and your hatred of yourself is nearly perfect and absolute. So it comes out here, which is probably for the best. Anyway, enjoy a little bit of darkness here and now, maybe it will make everything seem brighter by contrast.
The stars reel drunkenly,
Spinning in slow pinwheels above
The man below, staggering, boots crunching on snow
In a wasted, ragged waltz
Coat open to the greedy, grasping fingers of the wind off the lake
Careless and uncaring, not even seeing the slush streaked pavement
Lost in his own private universe of cold and regret and pain.
Faces appear and vanish in the dark shop windows
Or rise up in the black ice sheets gleaming
Under the drunken stars
All the promises of the past parading endless
Frozen inside just like tears cutting burning frost streaks
Down scored cheeks,
An endless parade of dead white people
Eyes caught forever in stares of blame, or shame, or rage
Echoes in cold rooms of a heart where winter has settled
With no spring to follow.
Chased by these cold ghosts
Remorseless phantoms of all his failures
The man jerk stumble walks like a broken marionette
In the hands of some palsied puppeteer,
Mumbling now, breath hot, words taking smoke shapes
Babbling whiskey nonsense, appeals, denials
Barking now like a dog, the sound like a gunshot
In the dead silent winter night.
Up ahead, the lake gleams
Flat, barren as bone
Ice scab over deep, dark nothing
For an instant he pauses at the shore, maybe even looks back
Wanting to see something, someone
But there is just the white and the black
And a lonely room where there is no shelter nor comfort
So he turns, steps with more determination,
Out onto the ice, walking with a purpose he could only find
In the one thing he knew how to do well
Walking, waiting, praying
To hear the crack.