clawing back toward the perfect
in the dark
my eyes close,
and my consciousness retreats into sleep,
the world, so much with me during the day,
drops away and dream holds me under for awhile,
then, as if I need air,
something scared within me
claws back to the surface,
and I am awake,
and I am anxious,
scared enough to feel the heat
that is fear swallow me,
if I can name the desperate part of me
that refuses forgetful oblivion,
that demands to be felt,
I can often slip back into sleep
since I know the demon’s true name,
last night I felt enough disturbance in the Force
to snap me awake, again and again,
to hold me awake as I named,
as I listed,
the troubles my soul needs to deal with,
we’re each on a long reascension back toward the perfect,
the perfect that was in the beginning,
and into which I hope to return,
this night I think I feared an end time into which
the stupidity of our politics is driving us.
by Henry H. Walker
February 24, ‘17
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