on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥