Page: Profile: Poetry
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VxPoem ID: 26180
Posted: December 29th. 2006 2:47:39 PM
Dream or Reality
Age Group: Adult
Dream or Reality
I write this in hope that it will bring someone, peace. For you see my soul is tormented, tormented by the dreams that come unto me. By night or during the daytime, asleep or awake it does not matter. What I see would scare the Hell out of the most faithful. Everything is so real that, as I look at myself now, at my own reflection in the mirror, I find that my life the force that is within me is being drained.
For once I was the perfect picture of health, strong and virile, bright-haired, well spoken and of strong voice, a sincere man. Now all I can see before my eyes is an aging old man, turning gray and becoming weak in strength, my voice has become slow and stuttered, eyes growing dim and this body has aged physically in appearance, far, far beyond its young years. Everything that I once was has been changed and now I am not.
Within these few lines, scribbled on paper written as a reminder of my torture. To whom ever finds them, please remember that somewhere in these words is the answer that eludes me. An answer to a question that I have forgotten, maybe perhaps before my time ends, I shall find it. But I do know of, and can say this with all my facilities that I have seen the beginning and things that are to come.
In making this statement do not judge me, for I can not feel remorse, I mean it is not my fault. I cannot control what I see, nor all that I remember. As the times change, so do the lives we live and the reasons that we exist. But the question always remains, things go unanswered and we hide away our emotions, especially the ones of turmoil. One can scene the pain of a rising soul, deadened by the grief of ones life. We are moved by actions that not everyone can overcome, even our own selves.
Glancing down the hallway, I can see the memories of the other lives, painted on the walls. Tormented faces, that is as much apart of me as the secrets that hide in the dark, moving within the shadows, oozing out of the cracks, and crevices. Screaming in the night and yearning for justice, maybe, even revenge.
Pale an overdrawn, crippled in flight, nothing matters anymore, no not even to the ones who started all this. Cursed is the day that they came. I can hear the fleeting glimmer of voices, as I begin to place them to the many faces that have been carved into the walls.
There comes to me a cold and unloving chill in the air, it cuts through me, as once again I can feel the draining of my inner force, the soul. Or as I see it, the reason we all become who we are or should I dare say, what I have become.
The voice once told me that the gift of being a human is not his own, for in the hand is the idea that comes from the mind. An endless void filled with things it is said. And to the mind, the burning passions that come from ones own blackened heart. Here to the heart comes a fluttering dream, a fancy from the soul. For in ones own soul all things begin and end. Here is where hope is born in us, for us, but not of us. And yet we can not fathom our own existence.
This is the pain as we search, yearning for truth, as if compelled that when the music plays we must waltz. Dancing to some unseen force, each one of us to a different song. But it always comes from the soul, then, now and forever, we must remember that we are all one of spirit, even when we have done something unforgiving.
Author's Notes: I wrote this piece, when I was battling cancer in 2001. What we preceive as the truth or reality is in essence only in our minds. Or are we the reality that only exists in someone elses reality, while hanging onto this life by a short thread, I gained a new awakening in my self, and I have never looked back.
Author's Location: belleville, Michigan
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