There was a place
where the people were free,
now that it is lost
it is only memory,
and a curse;
a hope, distant,
yet for some too close for comfort.
You say too close for words!
A dream, submerged,
when it surfaces for air we all breathe.
Gasp it in the quiet.
Drink it in, sink in it,
get lost and get hopeful again.
You can't achieve a goal
you can't reach the scolding star.
Your air dries up, valves close like doors
or windows shuttered.
There are drips in the gutter,
sounds in the night;
wakeful sounds, distorted by broken time.
Try to quench a burning flame,
hope it works,
avoid all you can
to see through the running time of your life,
turn all around until it changes into something you like.
One day the sound will be clear,
the way laid out,
but you have not crossed the first hurdle,
the laying out, the calling in,
- the reeling back in.
You are still recoiling from the first pain,
the first sound,
so offensive to your ear.
You struggle to loosen your bonds,
to escape the waking sounds,
so close to you.
You are losing.
© 2004-7 Richard Townrow