What I Am Becoming

I used to find solace in writing.
Somewhere along the way, that
tenuous serenity has taken its leave
of me.

I'm not one for blaming
and this departure is no different
to the thousands that preceded it.
I take it on the chin. I take it
as a man would.
I take it to my secret Hades.
I bid it a solemn, playful farewell
(as I did to you, and the
you before you)
and I cast it off along the
river, silver and
twinkling
in the gathering dawn.
(My Styx stinks of
bourbon and weed).

I go to bed one thought emptier
than I did the night before.
This is a finite cycle.
This, too, has an end.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

There are lot of fine lines this piece treads, in the sense that there are any number of pitfalls lurking in a piece of this nature--the whole Hades/Styx could have been done too cute by half, ditto the whole bourbon/weed notion, and the emotional tone of the piece, given the subject matter. certainly could have become frantic to the point of shrill. Fortunately, all of these items are present in judicious amounts in this piece: the emotional tone is just so, the classical references are just that as opposed to something to beat the reader around the head and shoulders with, and the whole piece is gracefully balanced from start to finish.