Author: Unknown
As I resume the silent walk,
alone I listen to the talk,
of the wheels in my mind.
Gear on gear, they slowly grind.
Ever turning, ever spinning,
on and on, endless filling
my thought with brackish bile.
Tower after tower, pile after pile.
Darker, blacker, on they run
clouding out all hope of Sun.
Poison growing deeper,
Poison growing stronger,
Can I bear the pain much longer?
When I wonder will it end,
is salvation 'round some distant bend?
Beyond some corner not yet seen,
Waiting for some hidden dream?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Oct 2009
About this poem:
I wrote this while I was pacing around a courtyard at uni. I was feeling very isolated and lonely and my thought were all depressing. It was like something had taken a-hold of my thoughts and turned then into stagnant, black bile. Not surprisingly once I'd written this it was almost like I'd banished something. I tend to use poetry like that. The act of writing and focusing on my thoughts and words seems to create a level of reality to them. Taking them beyond myself and to a place I can look at them as if they're not mine.
Does anyone else also get the "itch" for poetry? I always feel like lightening is shooting up my spine and ants are crawling under my skin until I get the words on paper. The worst part is when you've wanted to say something and suddenly the inspiration is gone and you feel hollow.
I once heard it described as like seeing a storm on the horizon and having to sprint to get some paper and write it all down before the storm passes.
Love to hear you comments either on the poem or my questions here. I have some other poems if anyone is interested in hearing them?
Ralph
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