There is seemingly no way around this odd feeling,
A mixture of unease and quite brilliant awe,
Though apparently, notwithstanding it makes sullen swirls
In the moments of my life.
There is no mysticism here, no there is not,
Though I tend to rely on more subtle meanings,
Old songs from my youth return in baskets of tears,
Calling to me in a savage loneliness.
On downtrodden days I might have recalled
A more stringent reliance on more summer times,
But the logistics of love leave no balance of senses
That might render me futile to my own desires.
It is an education, it is, of a gigantic sort,
And more musical lines may be more poetic,
But the hammering of my scarred heart
Signals me in long awakenings.
It tells me in rustic winter surroundings,
That I am indeed special, to some degree,
And in moments of clarity as yet undisclosed
I rest beautifully in the arms of the unaware.
Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham