From, and To
Neil Young sings in the background of the empty diner.
Steam rises from your coffee.
Your mind is sluggish, fragmented, sleep deprived,
a creature of the dark chasing away the night.
Slowly, the locals filter in. Chatter fills the air.
You know all the rituals, the nods, the smiles,
the secret language of the broken and tired,
one we all speak, less to hide than to protect
each other, a silent co-operative of warriors
determined to save each other from the darkness we each carry.
The moment of truth comes as it always does.
The question comes, and for a moment you begin the holy ritual,
but catch yourself. take a deep breath, and utter the truth.
And suddenly the avalanche, the outpouring of the truths that bind,
a reminder that underneath we are a fellowship of the broken,
stronger, not when we play soldier, but when we become what we are,
an army of survivors, finally able to share our burdens,
arm in arm, carrying each other from,
and to the battlefield.
About this poem
Semi-autobiographical account of the morning so far. A dark one, with growing light. Sounds like a weather report, doesn’t it? Maybe, in a way, it is.
The picture was taken in a back alley of Savannah, Ga. It had that “battlefield” look to me.
Have a great weekend, my readers. I treasure you all. More than you know.