Writing For the Wastebasket.

A Light in August

 

Part I: The Descent

 

Pious follies, righteous wrongs

commenced the turning of the wheel

that lurched, and then, momentum maimed

began its course on slickened steel.

 

A numb fragility ensued

an enervated straw man, bent

upon a chosen hell to show

that choice compressed is will well spent

 

Conceding error or regret

would cut too close to psychic bone.

Familiar siege of Sysiphus

with hue and cry in tenor tone.

 

A gusting gale into the mind.

The icy, solemn, northern blasts.

The irreversible domain

exclaims aloud: "The Die is Cast!"

 

The loathing worn as premier badge-

ferocity of inwardness

A positive and active pain,

all efforts wasted to arrest.

 

Toxic tendrils teem in tide-

unnameable and poignant still.

Bewitching and abysmal black,

a doomed and barren soil to till.

 

Brushed with rank delinquency

that Lessens men to somber souls,

and misadventure clutches fast

to slow the gait to stumbling stroll.

 

An obligate divinity

of crumbling character and worth.

The jagged contour of a life

devoid of gaiety or mirth.

 

The throng assembled, old and new-

a tragic loving legion lost

by twisting of minds labyrinth

which kills slow with insipid frost.

 

Evolved unnoticed to a storm-

a howling tempest in the brain,

which feeds itself, its force to feign

to rain at once, but then to reign.

 

Insinuated spinelessness

for lack of noble sturdy name.

The dungeon of the spirit growls

through teeth betraying undue blame.

 

Erosion and unfocused dread

ensnare in suffocating gloom.

Enabled by a mind amiss

to paint thick black a whitewashed tomb.

 

What once appeared a polished vase-

gleaming while it first was glanced,

when touched erodes with yawning yearn

by writhing and lamenting chance.

 

A light's denouement, brackish sight

as through a glass and darkly spied

a search beyond the crisis nigh

had left but one attempt untried.

 

The old, arresting designate,

shed clean to save the simple self-

A light in August, poised to bathe

a broken soul in splendor's wealth.

 

 

"In the middle of our journey, I found myself in a dark wood.  For I had lost the right path."

-Dante

 

 

Part II:  The Turning

 

"And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars."

-Dante

 

Self-sent to toil and serve the wretch,

a wretch within one's own self found.

Through mediating intellect

a loveliness of life abounds.

 

That monster's ancient, wheezing voice

regains its pluck, arrests its fall,

and grattitudes eclectic reach

restores the man to infant's crawl.

 

Frequent, feverish, and in haste,

borne up by love and sight of light.

A climbing out of dungeons dearth-

restored to strength, reborn to might.

 

A senior friend to intellect

whose ministrations, daily sought,

lift up the heavy hands and heart

to sprint to glory rarely wrought.

 

Where once was bland tonality-

the rumbling hum of boredom's horde,

now magesterial presence shines

with lyric shield, and song as sword.

 

The body, soul, and mind conspire

to rise against, at last, reject

the woe and shame, the storm of murk,

abandonment, and self-neglect.

 

Replaced it with a slant of light-

sheet lightning- flickering afar,

though not perceived for power spent,

still left the door of hope ajar.

 

This new display presaged the day

of sun aloft in noon-day sky.

No shadow cast, but underfoot

the bones of yester-sorrows lie.

 

And if unflagging patience wins

this day, the next, then month and year

through alternating drench and draught

what's washed away will be the fear.

 

An energy that was before

throttled back to choke and stall

at once began, at my behest

to laugh aloud, above the squall.

 

And like a long beshrouded truth

uncovered now to marvel past

a gleaming clarity spills forth.

Autumnal plunge- reborn at last.

 

Skittering 'round the edge of mind,

one feels the wind that from the wing

of madness hissed beside the ear

and near it, recognized a thing

that plagues and festers, scolds and scorns,

but has within it's armor black

a gaping square, a missing link

that leaves it open to attack.

 

And so, with love, a blaze ignites-

engulfs the whole of room around,

and scrubs it hotly from the view.

Ash. Ember. Darkness.  Not a sound.

 

And thus it is that haven home

must burn to humble earth, that we

may see the brilliance of the sky.

 

Light in August.

 

Serenity.