Becoming a Poet
The feeling of emotion, the beginning,
the meaning of emotion, the end.
When these crossed at the edge of my twilight time
my mind started to sink at sunset, unexpressed.
After the futile walk through the clouded day
the garden path I had lost,
searched a hand to guide and show me the way
where the unknown roads had crossed, unwalked.
When the day’s last wind began to blow,
in the wasteland of past my shadow lengthened
falling on the frail footprints buried under dust,
while the roads to the future waited, crossed.
I traveled through the torrent of turmoil, I'd forgotten
the bridges left behind for I burnt them all.
I chose the road and crossed the river ahead
on the bridge you'd built for me, unpossessed.
Cycles of good times and bad times,
cross-currents of contrast in skeptic mind’s confusion,
that cleared as the mist of doubt lifted,
I saw the road ahead wasn’t at its dead end, untraveled.
Life’s story written in time's tome of flowing continuum,
at the end of a sad chapter challenged me to choose
if I’d turn the page or close the book,
I had decided to read on till the end.
At the crossroads of crowded compromise degrading,
and after the silent crumbling in loneliness passionate,
following the moonlit path the dreams tread on,
I rose from the dust and became a poet.
September 18, 2019
December 31, 2019
Contest : Strand Select, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
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