Beneath Strong Currents

Here he sits and writes
His schemes the dreams of dying things
Who wish forlorn to stand again
And remember what once was
It wasn’t immediate that such misery befell
Originally, he was doing well
But then came those muddling fiends
Painting targets on his insecurities
Fatal appeared the blows that marked him
Hit not like a shot, but slow and steady
The rhythmic hitting of a hammer
Bashing brain and brilliance with indifference
Breaking down, over time
The props that held him
Propped up like a marionette
In his desk chair
Pinocchio in repose
With a nose that grows
With every lie
With every truth
That pretends to be a lie
No longer swimming, nor treading
But sinking beneath cruel swells
The weight of his world
Tied to each limb with a heartbeat string
But as he fades from the buffeting waves
The voices in his mind quiet
The violence on his psyche stills
A calm embraced at the bottom of the ocean floor
Here, now, all is stripped away
Laid bare before no one but himself
Here he sits, pushing fingers into cold sand
Fine particles of infinity that care nothing of him
Here he sits, and here he writes
Apart from the parts of himself
That told him no
No good
No chance
No money
No time
No talent
No use
Far from the hammering strokes
Far beneath the heaving seas
He finds a peace
A tiny voice that says
Maybe it’s time to begin
Again