When friends’ shoulders aren’t there for the crying,
when love is a wall made of stone,
when life seems a prelude to dying,
when you’re lonely and weeping alone.
That’s when you create your own salvation,
you craft it from sweat and from sand.
You burst out of the bitter stagnation
and build a new life, build it by hand.
The fire in the furnace inside you
is stoked with the pain of the past.
You stare into the face looking at you
from that mirror behind broken glass.
And you scream at the monsters and demons
calling them out for the fight.
You board the ships of the seamen
and sail from the harbor at night.
You chase them with hatred and laughter,
you seek them with snarls and love.
You call them before and then after
and watch them below and above.
[This unfinished poem will almost certainly be scrapped before it is either finished or replaced because, well, it is crap. But at least it challenges my rhythmic poemmaking equipment.]