Peices of the Past

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I walk with the utmost serenity

Towards an act of finality

But also a new beginning

An age of reason

My steps become slower

As I near my destination

My walk is more deliberate

And tense

I approach the misty shoreline

And remove my coat and shirt

The cold digs angrily into my skin

Nestling among my pores

Like little beads of ice

I feel them and enjoy the pain of it

I then remove from my pocket

A small item on a necklace

And a heavy ancient hammer

It is nearing dusk

And everything is obscured by a heavy fog

which hides the opposite lake shore

I feel as if the whole universe is behind the fog

Waiting for me

As I stand at the gateway

I hold it up and look at it

The fog makes a photo worthy backdrop

I stare at it as the thoughts reel through my head

And then I place it on the rock at my feet

I continue to gaze, and then, because I know I must, I kneel

Silently, slowly, I raise the hammer up

Then let it fall

It embodies my feeling, thoughts and emotions

My soul and life

As it falls downward toward the small wooden object

Which smashes to bits on the rock

I take the remnants of the object

And toss them to the sea

Pieces of a past

A wooden Crucifix

Turmoil

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This should probably be split into two poems. Oh well.

Turmoil

I am tired, sad, depressed

unable to decide my path

So much, yet so little to live for

What to do

She is beautiful

Yet a strain on my sanity

She said yes but I am not happy

I never do enough for her, with her

My time is tight

And though I want her, I want to leave her

Back to my old life which seems so carefree

How can I say it softly

We have done so little

I have not even had a chance with her

I’ve already had enough

In solitude I speak

Hiding behind a poem

writing not acting like I know I should

Trying to fix myself, my pain

The mask of happiness with which I stroll

Only working eases the load

keeping busy

Forgetting her

Forgetting us

I cook and lift and hoe

distracted from a harsh reality

Why complicate what could be so simple?

My childhood decided by men in suits

Behind closed doors

over the course of history

We must clap to the rhythm of their

Bureaucratic song

I try to change it

To escape

To interrupt them with my trumpet blaring

A tune not often played before

I play my heart out as loud as I can

But my trumpet is made of copper

And theirs of solid gold

Theirs rings above mine so still I must clap

The gold is deceitful

Like all gold, a fools gold

The children say

“we must have one too!

It is pretty and shines new”

My copper is ugly

No one cares for the tune that it plays

No matter how beautiful