Hopes and Tears, Dreams and Fears

February 10, 2007 § Leave a comment

Humility does not come easy to a dreamer and remains a tough lesson, how many ever times I fall on my raised chin. This gift, I am to so modestly hold close to my heart in gratitude, does smite me much too often in keeping with its nature. That nature, so well addressed by all. This pilgrimage we seek, seems not so serene and peaceful, resembling more, a war front to me. Blood doesn’t need to flow red always, there are fears in their purple-black contempt to remind me how mortal I truly am. The soul is but a child and Hope, always the parent… that one solitary force at the pulpit and forever that single source of harsh expectation.

I am not without hope and unfortunately will never be. No Twist or Eyre am I, to be empathised with. Unfortunately I say because, it is a surrender of sorts I cannot but help covet at times. Divinity in it’s well meaning flippancy might bestow that spark in me as in all those that walk this earth beside me. But, do not judge me weak for struggling to hold my the storms inside. Sparks are but harbingers of fires and sometimes firestorms. Am I made of lesser stuff to be so cowed by my storms? Should I be so unable to overcome these tribulations as many past have, to earn ultimately, my destined heroic status? Am I so weak and beaten that I refuse to glory in the blue of a sky so distant?

Difficulties are paintings of a complexity only your own hand can produce with the intent of the similarly owned mind. So do forgive me, this homage to my inherent humanity, the indulgence of my insecure ego… my capacity to doubt my abilities.

Oh, do not even try to understand the circles I draw for my own to run along. This story is in a language only I read, a life only I lead, a hope only I hoard and a dream only I perceive. I will work around these stakes and I will eventually learn to live with them.

Rest assured, this too shall pass as time does, and youth, sorrow, joy and pain. It is but a paltry life, inspiring in its fleeting brilliance. Such human pride, though impotent to live as the Gods outrageously may and die as animals gracefully do. Such is the morbidity of my thoughts. The dawn I know, hope and believe will break through but what words do I employ to convince a child that the night shall not come again? It will nevertheless pass…

Here’s a well meant reproduction… a poem for a lyrical spirit?

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
-W.B. Yeats

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