Briony Nicholls

Getting There

Looking out from this fog
Of doubt I lie, swallowed and small,
defeated but still seeking
for no less than a way
to dematerialise this great inanity!

If the secrets of the ancients
would fall from the sky!
If ceaseless praying from a dry mouth
was fool-proof and delivered right away
I could be as steadfast as a rock.

Not knowing any better, I too, like Prometheus
struggle with what cannot be broken
and watch myself drift into endless wars
I cannot escape.
My head a stoic block, upon which -

I will pestle myself to illumination.
Or be bludgeoned
- and carried away.
Or be somehow delivered without pain.
In the end it is really all the same.

I have already survived
the infantile barracoons
that sawed through my flesh
Broken glass and a tear-stained eye
follow me with no intention of resting in peace

Having un-nailed myself from my cross
I walk, forlornly resurrected for the rest
In truth, uncertain of anything
but braced and strapped in hope
in the heavy armour I wear.

I am attended by shadows
Masking all that I’m incapable of seeing right now
which the guiding hand of Life
draws its tyranny and strength from
with the urgent necessity of flying arrows

fueling the Herculean struggles,
the requisite dooms
through blood, sweat and tears
to finally deliver me
a small drop of incandescence!

as precious as all the world
tying together a sea of blissful ‘ahas’
dissolving and absolving
depurating me
towards the elusive song of

through the falling veils
beckoning and calling
- the most softly spoken -
through the din of all others

Submitted: Thursday, May 08, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, May 14, 2014

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