Doubt--poem

There are days
when I’ve got wings sending me here and there,
all the while gliding above the dirt I see below

There are days
when I’m covered in the mud I allegedly created and
drag my companions through the mire and guck

There are days
when I make the choice to establish
protection to veil the war I’m trying to
squelch

On those days,
They are just as likely to
quiet Their tunnel vision, set to full-speed on my faults
as They are to load all arsenal
and blame their way into my blood

There are days
when I believe my accusers
there are days
when I believe in the power of
stubborn protection and the risk in
tough love

and then there are those days
when I get stuck in the quicksand
and I don’t know if it was me or
Them
that put me there

Deconstructing Legend--poem

What happened to the legendary strength?
Was "legendary" mythological when transformed into
hindsight?

I don’t understand how hindsight is seeing
when blinders have been fastened tight while walking,
stumbling,
crawling through the mire of today, then
tomorrow
then the next couple of days
(or was it weeks? months?)

and it all blurs, it all smudges
onto the canvas of what tomorrow was
supposed to look like
eons ago
or was it just yesterday?

What’s so legendary
about forgetting what day or moment
or unit of time
marks the transition from ok
to “not so much?”

What is the legend behind
surviving dying when
he left me behind
and yet I’m behind
myself
on the 3D hamster wheel in the centre of my
picture of what today and tomorrow and all the years ahead
are supposed to look like?

The two don’t mesh, do they—
the wheel and the picture,
the death and the survival
the legend and the fall
the divide of her
and me—who I used to be,
all the love in my life can’t seem to waken
all the love dead, in my stomach,
unmoving and unliving,
waiting for her to return
to smash away the blinders, the smudgy background—
turn my eyes to the fore of
tomorrow’s sight
to a new story of who the survivor
could be.