Washing the Soul

A poem from Eric M. Black's collection of poetry, An Old Man.

I

Who can hear, the ever-clear, with the shadows tap, tapping away?

Who can hear, my tears (away), when the soul is filled with grey?

Washing the soul was a mighty task

One not for you perhaps, yet one for me to undertake

For tis my calling from God

My duty to myself to be myself

One who has been lost for a long time

Wonders if who he knows he is, is really a dream

Memories fade fast, faster than we would will them

Time slips by, sometimes years go by

Ashes pile upon till we no longer see; we are blind

But if we take time to remove the ashes,

Realize them for what they represent

We begin to slowly feel the heat from the remaining embers below

As the clock turns forward once again we find new ways to fuel the fire

Making it burn brightly, reaching others,

And life goes on…

 

II

Therefore, the flame to us is now as we would will it,

We breathe free, we speak free,

Godspeed the injured-one’s journey back to himself,

Back to self-respect

Back to righteousness

Back to who he would like to be, not as the fear makes him to be

As a child, he did not grow up with a desire to be nothing,

With nothing in his heart

Creating a darkness that spreads easy; a cloth, once unfolded.

The cloth is rounded, with edges not easy to find

Its blackness is such that no light can escape through the outside to he who is trapped within.

Time trapped does not matter, or seem so important as once anticipated

As the man knows, now he is a man,

He is unafraid to show this to the world, as he was before

To not make this break means not to live

And that alone is hell…

Author's Note

Please share your thoughts.

Reviews

[ivizarx]

My thoughts: pretty dam good work if I must say so.
gives me sorta a T.s. Elliot quite feel.
great work mate, all I can say