Inner Peace Made with a Tale
I can't escape hearing the voices.
Even when, I myself, am utterly alone,
Even when the plea for peace,
is threadbare, shredded into tatters
of shrugged-off 'don't matters'.
The child I once was,
clamors for wonder, mischief, and make-believe.
The critic leans back, arms-crossed,
primed to tear down every armistice deal.
The dreamer scatters blueprints
made of butterfly wings,
stalling, stalling,
for happenstance to lead the way.
The doubter folds paper chain dolls,
strung together with paperclip chains.
The judge bangs the gavel on the table, commanding:
"Enough of the blithering!"
"This piecemeal deal must be done—Today!"
The mirror shows I myself, splintered into
a bookcase of shadows, on the shelves.
In the High Court of Inner Appeal -
They beg to differ, plead to acquiesce,
to become as one,
all-inclusive, but failing —
Then, another shadow enters the room.
A tiny puppy wagging its tail!
Mind is at peace.
Peace is here, if you please!
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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