One consisting of hurricanes and tempest howls
Leaving what is left behind
In one fuzzy and dusty sight
For deep inside I hear the sounds of old familiar voices
Voices that come with the seasons
And feelings that come with the voices
As I walk the road I see the light
Even in the midst of the settling dust
I still know that the sun shines
But would looking at the sun hurt my eyes?
Is what was meant for good really what I am ready for right now?
Or would it still stay in my mind's eye,
Still in the midst of wonder and hope?
I am stuck between a place of passion and a place of the physical
Seasons of cycles and prophetic glimpses
It is like a war in my conscious
Is this a game on my mind?
Or am I really fighting for my life?
But how does one fight without energy
And how does one win with no zeal?
Is the fruits of my loins enough to carry me
To keep going and keep sowing?
Or will they shine as a rebuke for me
To how far I have fallen?
Insanity comes knocking
And mental obscurity comes passing by
Making the warrior who is on the drug
Distracted and concealed in his head-battle
Stuck in the mental games
One is lost to win the actual battle
For everything has been taken
And sometimes given
Given away into the hands of the identical enemy
One with bad choices and in depth sorrow
I ask myself
How does patience still have the power to wait?
Because I would much rather go sleep
And never come back
But hope it stays and tests the waters
It makes the dust seem like it is more distant
It takes me out of the equation
Even just for a minute
So I can look from a far
So I can look and draw near
To what really belongs to me
To what really can set me free
(Like my page on Facebook: Rowyn Coetzee)
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