Poem: The Devil’s Whispering

Shady Grove.JPG

The Devils Whispering

This is where I come from,
from farms and flat lands,
from small intimate churches
and deep woods, long paths
and quiet.

From fields of corn and winter wheat,
from big skies and summer thunderstorms
you can see coming for miles,
a place where seasons define the landscape
and even the actions of the word around you,

a place of constant change, where little changes,
where a sweet seductive voice whispers in your ear
that there is more, so much more,
elsewhere,
and lures you away for decades

of adventure, of bright lights and technology,
strange worlds and a diet of adrenaline,
of testing and chest beating,
a primal and urbane wearing of costumes and masks
vital, invigorating and brutal,
until fate dumps your barely breathing carcass

in the middle of nowhere
and you relearn the most basic of things –
to breath,
to embrace what is,
and stop chasing the devil’s whispering
and allow yourself to be
yourself
and nothing else.

About this poem

Do you ever wonder why it takes us so long to become most honest selves?

The picture is of Shady Grove – my grandfather’s house in Surry County, Virginia. My dad’s sister lives there now. Even though I never lived there. (I was a suburban kid), Shady Grove always felt more like home than home when I was growing up.

Tom

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