Saturday, March 29, 2014

Call It (Poem 363)

Call it what you will, 
when tiredness sinks 
like syrup in your veins, 
turning your body to lead, 
thoughts growing heavy 
in your head, flowing 
like molasses through 
the channels of your brain,
feverish and dull, the trick 
is to find new dreams to dream, 
new thoughts to think, to fight
boredom, and stand up against 
the tyranny of despair. 

Call it what you will, this 
invisible illness bringing 
into question your every inaction, 
opening the doors of judgment 
among the more critical factions 
inhabiting your life, setting up 
housekeeping in your brain, 
changing the ever-changing life 
you hoped you'd have, the trick 
is to find a likely nook, build a nest, 
and crawl in for a few hours 
(or days) of rest, come what may,
to turn away from the less than 
understanding, and to be willing 
to embrace the mystery of it all, 
the unnamed maw drawing you 
closer each day, and the way 
the sun shines through 
your curtains in the morning. 

Call it what you will, if you listen 
you will hear a warning, 
whispered or shouted: 
Heed me; 
slow down; 
be more selfish; and 
honor the luminous light 
glazing the shimmering, 
glassine surfaces of 
the sacred temple 
that is you. This, 
call it what you will, is 
the trick, the secret, the answer 
to every question ever asked.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six