The Influx
As I stood in the spring of my youth,
when words flew at me like humming birds,
an influx of language from alien places
got inside my bones sealed tight,
summoning me to pay close attention
like a train whistle or a siren,
a fist knocking at the door, a voice from
a courier from a yonder place
I don’t know, an island, a paradise,
a hell, a crypt, a house of pleasure,
an ancient writing on the wall of a cave
transmitted into the future,
pounding into my cluttered mind,
my self of indifference and rebellion,
stuffed in my closet and forgotten,
the cornerstone of the house of my future,
a part of me that floated downstream
and emptied into a sea called the abyss.
As my future came to me,
to my shallow eyes and disbelief,
a disregarded truth that makes me move,
that relies on prudence and memory,
of words that go with the flow,
riding upon the tip of my tongue,
a poet in quest of that one word
buried in the catacombs of the mind,
a casual search that became a desperation
for the light that illuminated the pathway
that poets walk upon,
that flickered out in the days of yore,
stuffed in the closet of my mind.
Some came back to me slowly
in my deepest meditations,
my supplications, my spiritual newness,
my begging for mercy,
my self awareness, my repentance,
and my testimony to how foolish I was.
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