If I could begin
to forget, perhaps
that would be the beginning.
A momentary cessation
in the hungering
for quiet, and still.
If I could begin to release,
that white-knuckled grip
I have held
on the remaining dreams of my youth,
then perhaps,
perhaps they can still spring free.
Born into a richer world,
loamy, fertile,
exploding forth from the soil,
fragile stems, leaves, and flowers
reaching for a distant sheltering sky.
Instead of hiding
beneath these rough hands,
mute, stunted,
accepting of less.
Instead of the ubiquitous awareness of weight;
a barrage of lifetimes of regrets,
and promises not kept.
I will stand on the battlements freely.
Walk my post
from back to front.
Posture strongly
in the face of a recognized enemy.
Shout loudly with companions,
drink my fill when the occasion warrants.
Then retreat
to cold comfort,
hands still tight, and still so heavy.
Aching with effort.
Preoccupied with the strain of standing.
Inevitably I fall.
Before the night rushes in,
I bring my hands to my head
to cover my face.
