Challenge

She’s gone and they expect the crowds

the mourners will overflow, hundreds

will pack into too small of a space.

Rent out a grand room, to hold everyone

who wants to pay their respects.

And I look around, lost in the throng,

amidst and adrift

and ask myself

What good can I do now,

so when I die, years hence,

I will be mourned like this?

What good can we all do now?

Clouded

Foggy, hazy, clouded mind, I’m yelling
I hear myself screaming, growling
at who? The nameless forces
blocking what I know
must be done. Says who?
Why must it, again?
What’s so important
about any of the trappings of time
the trivial travails of the everyday
that I turn on them, fierce and
fearful? To be feared?
The clouds part and clarity and sanity return and I know being loved is
so much sweeter than feared.
So why do I start swinging
angry and arrogant
when the foggy cloudiness of insanity descends?