The Process
I try to write
A simple process, one would think, and yet...
Tangles, and torrents, and tidal waves
Rushing, cramming, straining
A subway at rush-hour
Sometimes I wonder if any will make it through
Will come out the other-side unwrinkled
Will manage to keep their vibrancy and light
After being pushed out the canal of thought
Squeezing through, pushing out of the dark
Do they stay the same on their journey?
Or are there bruises, dents, tears;
Imprints of the time within
I feel them sometimes
Pressing, and straining, and clamoring
I try to bring them out, but I lose them
Probably more than I save; I lose
When the survivors reach the end
That isn’t the end- they are weeded out
The weak and mangled are discarded
Tossed as refuse in a back-alley bin
I still hear their disjointed cries
Coming from half-formed mouths
At the end, the weary veterans
Pursuing their mission
Do they speak only for themselves or
Do they speak for their fallen comrades
Are there any left with luster and hope
Any standing whole
The process complete
I sigh, I shudder, and am spent
Nothing more
