particles of fading sight

childhood memory
quietly drifts
into my mind

. . . this place
this scene
is gone,
is of the past,

yet forever etched,
forever imprinted
to the walls
of my mind

forever in my memory
can never be erased

images,
. . . cream hues
drift across my field of vision
as the reel of this
again streams,

of whitish,
trasluscent film,
vague,
yet vivid

like
wood ash -
with just a tinge
of dry reality,
that i can touch
with thought,

of a summer child’s scene,
involuntarily emerged,
from forgotten recesses of mind

the scene moves,
slow frames
softly sweep,
to reveal
a timid panorama
to focus
subtle,
on the dust of things,

on ghost wood,
that’s not store bought,
. . . but that’s earned its name
by the harshness of life, . . .
it’s wretched aged state,

that of neglect,
coffee brown,
blackish grey,
dead and dying,
like neglected
humans themselves
who hewed it

my heart is moved
by the faded picture
of the paint
that remains,

like unearthed archeology
that’s chipped and flaked
with dirty white,
buried beneath

the dullest grey
stuck on the matrix
of ancient atoms
that somehow hold together
despite the ravages
of those that lived,
within the walls

that comprised the rustic shack
that served as shelter,
that belied
younger times,

that stood
in midst of plenty,
yet forlorn and outcast,
made unworthy,
that was my prison

before
when all was fresh
and children laughed
when all was well,

is where,
as a child,
i lived

. . . the timid panorama
proceeds,

its walls,
rough boards,
12 inches wide
3/4 inches thick,
with cracks,
three quarters to an inch wide
enough for a thumb to wedge through,
despite the cold and heat

where children played,
when no one there
cared

my heart flutters
my mind falters
my spirit rests
with the absence of those
that lived here . . .

tamarisk trees,
drooping,
with the weight of the world,
on their shoulders,

with the burden,
of holding silent
with what they saw,
because
they could not speak

unkempt,
dark blue
and tired,
dusty green,
covered in webs
with color of darkest rust
with chords of rough,
upraised bark
on their skin,
running linear to the vertical

my reality
my dirt
my hard packed ground,
upon which i stood

. . . waste water
in a hand hoed ditch,
black as pitch
reeks of tar and mud
for its standing stagnant
of methane
decomposition,
of organics,
like pig fat
and mix of wastes
common to our world,

like used soap,
used in a dirty
outdoor canvas shower,
smelling of generic perfume

my spirit eye drifts,
it floats over water
to a canal
filled with tules,
frogs and chinese clams
in its muddy bottom
a perfect place to float
a boy-made makeshift raft
a perfect place for trauma,
like to see
with faded recollection,
the texture,
the bulge
the movement within,

a burlap sack
full of kittens,
plunged into its deep
by the victims themselves
by the heartless
by the desperate,
the empty

how am i here?

all i know
is that i am
simply here,

like a dog
that cannot question,
that cannot change its fate,
just accepts

who am i?
i don’t know

where did i come from?
i don’t know
i am just here

where am i going?
i don’t know
i am only here

what do you know?

i know only
what i know,
good and bad
that is all,

seems
i don’t want
i don’t have
the capacity
to know more,

i just am
it is what it is

Dispair . . .

in the spirit
i know who i am

he is coming again
until then
by his spirit
i know

he came long ago
he knew me
before the earth was made
before the universe
was called into existence
he knew me

he knows his lambs

from his throne
he reaches to intervene,
to rescue

in that setting,
of faded memories
long ago to now,
he was near me
though
i knew him not

he gave me his spirit
and by degrees
to the present
i began to see
the way

He is the Way

as i aged
i saw
and began to understand
to see and know the truth

He is the Truth

today the faded memories
of all the traumas
i have endured,
are repeated each moment
and worse,
wierdly mingled,
with the good,
in the world

. . . no longer like a dog
that cannot question,
that can only feel,
i know him now,
i know the truth
i can ask of him

there is reason
there is a thing called hope

in a world of trauma
i have hope

there is resurrection
for all
eternity waits
on the other side

through it all,
the despair
he has given me hope
he has given me life
he is the Life

i am the resurrection
i am the way
the truth
and the life

you know his name,
i’m sure you would never
take it in vain
if you knew him,

his wonderful name is
Jesus

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Beautifully conveyed lines tell a story of much hardship and pain. A struggle finding yourself and your place here. You have a faith, and that has put things into perspective and gives you the energy and courage to continue. You have hope.

Chris

[RuseInex]

well said, life is a struggle unavoidable therefore faith is vital wherein is hope for strength of courage, yes, thanks you for the perceptive feedback