Do not think it has been forgotten.
Oh no, it lurks there still,
put in its place, in nice neat folders,
the work of years, perhaps even,
your life’s work, each demon labeled,
history researched in your best efforts
to reduce each one to mere facts,
far less dangerous than the monsters
that nearly ate you alive,
that devoured your flesh and soul
and left only your pale white bones,
and a smidge of soul, just enough
it appears to survive.
What a strange thing it is
to cut away and grow new flesh
all at once, all at the same time,
an odd thing to watch the battle,
to feel it deep in what is left of you,
life and death in battle,
a terrible scourge of hope and fear
and stubborn determination
to live, Ezekiel’s call ringing in your ears.
a miracle not of your making
even as you struggle to make it so.
You have won the day. and that is all.
You are not deceived
by the rows of folders and boxes,
by the simple hand-written labels on each one,
They are not mere history.
They are not destroyed, merely contained,
still restless, still hungry, still angry.
At night you hear them in the basement,
rustling, waiting for the one moment
when your guard is down,
when you are foolish enough to believe
the war is done,
to finish the work they started.
About this poem
Inspired by my bible reading earlier this week, Ezekiel 37:1-14. Even if you are not a believer, or perhaps a casual believer, it’s a great bit to read. When you do, you will find the scene has been stolen by film makers a thousand times.
Add to that a dollop of depression and a strange Magritte sense of humor and you get this poem.
Have a good day. Fight the good fight.