The Process

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