In the gaze of the other

"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"

Anxiety Upon Awakening

I open my eyes:
They have sprung me
so why am I unable to think
beyond the bars which beckon me
more than the prospect of love again,
the feathery notion of a girl child?
Thoughts imprison me:
lost now without job and career,
tethered by the ankle to my freedom
from cells, captures mental space.
Unable to gather up my happiness
and equanimity again,
I am dungeoned to the drizzle zone,
damp and sorry.

I glance at the room:
Walled in by my lack of authenticity
and dishonesty, I cannot make a move
that does not eat up brain space–
what shall I say? do? What’s next?
–and erode the joy in my being.
More difficult than dying, being happy,
the only reason to live,
is infinitely unachievable
except in innumerable steps
that inch forward and fall back miles.

I close my eyes:
Brain shackled in the blue gut sadness
from being tied up in burying thoughts
of obligation, loss and restlessness,
the anxiety of time torments me in flashes.
The dream jail has me again within its walls.
It captures me still. Let me out!

I open my eyes again, staring at the door:
The years of my heart’s outside hovering
over my children so feverishly are waning
and I feel loss.
The years of voluptuous driving ambition,
seething with power and prowess are gone
and I feel loss.
The years of competent career choices,
and practice, direction and confidence are over
and I feel loss.
The years of potential to love undying
and forever are over
and I feel loss.

I turn my gaze to the window:
Dirt stains bespeckle the rooms of my house
and not a clean wash cloth anywhere,
no way to unsmudge my life.
Dense grey webs of carcasses fill the cracks
of doors, windows and ledges.
I miss the sparkle and scent of clean
like the fresh air outdoors
on the barbed wired rooftop
of the jail house after
the long, dark, suffocating detention
in the bowels of the barred building.
I try on a fresh sprinkle of pine sol gratitude,
but it barely brightens the dim of dust and decay.
A stretch of limbs, muscle, sinews and thoughts
might salve the sores of festering spirit.
Worth a try.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s