©1998 Andrew Thompson
This savage state of emptiness, silent to all but the soul it touches,
Too deep a sea to fathom, too shallow a pool to sail,
Unable to swim, unable to drown,
But damned is the soul that dwells here,
and damned by his own hand.
White waters batter me hard against the rocks, then drag me down for sport,
Feet flailing for a foothold, arms thrashing for any grasp,
But all must be denied, and nought shall come to me,
The savage stream called emptiness, a vast and spaceless sea.
Rage courses down through deadly falls,
Rage at family, rage at mothers and fathers, rage at beauty, rage at him,
Rage at those whose love was trusted, rage at those whose love was cherished,
But mostly rage at me.
A slight decrease in current and anger takes its place,
Anger at the sons and the daughters, anger at once loyal friends. And anger at you.
Anger at the world controlling the tides, 'til all conform to the one weak flow,
But mostly anger at me.
Around a bend in the ancient stream, indifferent waters calm and weak,
An indifferent world where indifferent fools may drown or flourish,
And all I feel is indifference towards this indifferent world, that neither wishes me drowned nor saved,
And life is surely over for the likes of me, if too long dwelt in these pathetic harbours.
Gentle currents sweep me past, to seemingly known waters,
Where new friends found, and new love seized, where I can be unknown amongst friends,
To start again, to try a little harder, then to try too hard, and to die again,
These once-known waters, are now merely pools of illusion.
Eons ago, ripples, waves, tsunamis, all gently bathed my soul,
And peaceful streams yet volatile, where hope and dreams were as simple as thought.
Where lies this magic ocean now, its purity and light?
Or has it dried, along with hope and innocence and dreams?
Hell-bent on death and survival, a conundrum not real nor false,
No state exists within these seas for the soul of one as damned,
But in hope, I leave a piece of me in every pool and stream,
And return to dwell once more, in these seething, thrashing whitewaters of rage.
