Thursday, April 08, 2010

a cramp in the wind

I get a foreboding sense,
in underground parking lots,
at late night cash machines,
over 2am phone calls,
I get a foreboding sense,
when the clouds go black,
in empty buildings,
or walking quiet streets,
a deep rooted sense,
borne of previous trauma,
a honed instinct,
simple superstition.
I find the will,
in the admiration of those,
who have survived dark storms,
walked those lost corridors,
yet stood alone,
still checked by a healthy conscience,
they have been sent to hell,
but have returned,
their fear gave birth to self-awareness,
the paradox of strength,
the seasoned riders of hell's dark night,
who, now,
sleep soundly through howling winds.


Fisheye Lens said...

At the geometric or temporal centre of every good piece of art - or of a person's life - is a descent into Hell. I feel like I've had my proton hysteron moment, and its all downhill (or uphill) from here, depending on how you look at it. The sturm und drang is outside my window as I write, and I can sleep an Orphic sleep, and can remember an Odyssean life.

Great post.

Sq2uare Corner said...

Awesome, Dox. Has a real extistential feel to it. Lately I have been watching a lot of film noir classics; the theme of your poem could have woven through the grainy film that captures movies like the Set-Up or Force of Evil. I can see John Garfield walking through New York streets. I can see him stepping along each verse of your poem, dropping deeper into hell.

Anonymous said...

This is why we love Oscar, Kerouac, and Cash.