Call The Light

 
The paths here are many and tend to multiply in the deep and dimness,
unfolding like paper dolls cut from black tissue paper,
and I fight the good fight… 
(even if it doesn’t feel very good)
over and over, 
a knotted string of days…
too many times,
the reason for the battle forgotten.
I am tired of the dark.
I am tired of being lost.
I am tired of looking like a champion,
and feeling like a broken toy.
And if there was any traveling grace that could hear me,
any shade, 
any spirit with mercy to bestow,
I would beg for a wisp…
A merest curl of light,
a way out,
and forward,
and a righting of the unbalance that fumbles my steps
and fogs my mind.
A dancing candle flame bright enough to signal me,
to lead me,
a more kindly guide than the bruising dark.
I have always known I would someday 
have to make this journey
and I would rather dance than crawl.
But confined in this place, 
ripped from the world,
I stagger-stand,
and try to remember the words,
that will call the light,
that will bring a small space,
a thumbsworth
 of sun.
Just a smudge,
just enough to show a new opening,
a trail more comfortable with itself.
One not shrugging and changing for spite,
not gambling on the fate of a straggling traveler
in a twisted Thimblerig.
Call the light.
I’m calling
with everything I have…
everything but my voice.
©jayetomas2016

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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