Perplexed. A word, bobbing up and down On the waves of my subconscious, Finally washed ashore today. It surfaced amid the flotsam Held in the clutches of seaweed fronds. Now on land, unlike the debris that surrounds it...
A word, bobbing up and down
On the waves of my subconscious,
Finally washed ashore today
It surfaced amid the flotsam
Held in the clutches of seaweed fronds,
Now on land, unlike the debris that surrounds it
I know what it means,
Yet I find neither comfort nor solace
In the fact that I know
Knowledge is a strange thing
To one, a life preserver floating atop the waves
To another, an anchor pulling him to the seabed
This wasn’t supposed to happen to me,
Nor was it in the script that I approved
Where is the hero in my story?
But then again, why not me?
I am neither special, nor unique
No more, no less, deserving than the next
Am I the author of my own biography,
Or, like Harold Crick, an unwitting character
In a narrative Stranger Than Fiction?
Am I the sum of my life experiences
Or what Another imagines me to be?
Are the things I say and do really me?
The tidal flow tugs and pulls,
But a million grains of sand
Refuse return passage to the sea
I could wait for the tide to rise
Attempt to throw it back in the water
Or, face the questions that begin to surface
This feeling, an unwelcome intrusion
I was taught I must always be in control
To never cede my power
Baffled. Bemused. Bewildered.
Yet more words wash ashore
Maybe I can build a raft or boat
From the shipwreck on which I arrived
Confounded. Discouraged. Frightened.
I must get off this beach!
These sea wasps sting in self-defense,
Each tentacle delivers pure venom
A dark shadow creeps across the sun,
What little light I had left
Retreats rapidly beyond a grey horizon
Thunder and lightning precede the rain
Which falls now, cold, wet, relentless,
My blanket of Certainty, soaked through, useless
Perplexed © 2016 by Kris Peterson. All rights reserved.