The Power To Write
If I don't write
I wouldn't exist,
so I put my words
in action.
I ran and opened the
French doors
and for an instant,
I imagined I could hear
the church bells ringing
tolling beneath the surface
of the wild Ocean.
A single fisherman stood
waist deep with his rod
trying to catch a fish
for his lunch, only to be
surrounded by the cold
gusty wind blowing enough
to freeze the church bells
from continuing to toll loud
enough for me to hear them.
Suddenly they stopped
when I felt the air was
crisp and salty
through that late afternoon,
time for the sun
of that same morning
going down,
sparkling
as the electric lights.
For some reason which
I could not reveal to myself
why I became unhappy,
or maybe insecure,
tired, pale, maybe unselfish
or unsympathetic with myself,
all those feelings ran
through my whole existence
as I could not verify
my thinking.
I looked rough for once in
my past years.
Suddenly the dangerous
calm was gone.
It had been replaced
by the white clouds
that reminded me
of my wedding dress,
as a shadow hidden
behind me, in me,
in front of me running
away from my permanently
changed soul.
After sitting for hours I felt
maddened by thirst,
it hurt badly as I remained
in isolation, dazed, blinded,
deafened, having no liquid,
or food for hours.
OH! How badly I needed
to forget about my soul,
feeling like a burning bush
suffering for so many years
in secret.
Growing up I mastered
into adolescence
an obsessive image,
a place that can seem to me
somehow an extension
of myself.
My children.
Terry
12/8/2016
Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2016
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