and on the days i don’t exist
where bedroom a lock-box shuts its door and the
knob falls off
where lunch i scavenge from nook and cranny
Sméagol in lightless lake
on the days where i am a moon-gem charged
by waning new, but the phase is full
or a sun-stone wishing warmth, would the clouds clear
or a mineral mystery, not knowing what power
comes by some charge of nature
the days that always feel behind but
carry eternity
where hours drip like a leaky faucet and
dusk comes early;
though true they come less often, and
true the grip is weaker but the arms come reaching,
reaching and wrangling what weakness i show
when will is spent
thrusting me from the water, a fish from my life
my lake and
tearing raw to tender flesh, the
wretch stuck itself
in blind cave
but lo, the wise have said the journey looks
hopeless to heroes held,
and I may have a part to play
come the end
-Colette Stergios