I wrote 6 stanzas--so, all but the last--of this poem during a time, several weeks ago, of extreme turmoil. To me, the rest of my life was essentially hanging on one piece of paper. It was a silly thing, and I have melodramatised it in this poem, but it got to me. So I let it flow onto paper.
The last stanza was written after the world had been lifted from my shoulders, so to speak. I think what I wrote adequately describes that, but that's not for me to decide. I have several disectable literary moments I've put into the poem; so for one of the first--if not the first--time, I've actually put some conceptual construction into one of my poems. So we'll see how that goes.
I managed to get this written with a multitude of university dedications growing around me. If only I could get around to finishing some of my prose, then I'd be a much happier person. As it stands, however, the dialogue of Pat Barker's novels becomes my number one priority, despite the fact I also have a project of equal length as my Dissertation for my other class.
Fun times abound.
Enjoy, I hope.
Throwing caution to a breeze,
To snatch it back again.
Stealing short, brief lines of hope,
From Fear's immortal den
A darkened room, a dreamless sleep,
Awake to aches of truth,
Eyelids stuck, yet drumming down,
Repeating visions, haunting doubts,
Clinging like a creep.
Too despondent for a smile,
Not sad enough to weep.
Roaming, floating, drifting through,
A non-committing space.
Where undetermined; fear or farce?
This purgatory place.
Yet purgatory's dull and patient,
There are no sins to sell.
Wandering twixt noon and night,
This is the depth of hell.
A growing fear, a ticking clock,
Answers looming, darkness now,
Fear is knowledgeless.
Hope eternal, springs anew,
Fear was folly's guest.
Eyes close gently, panic-tired,
Into dreamless rest.