A Diminutive Measure of Peace from 1972 – Now!
by John G. Evans
© 5/1/2020 3:04:43 AM
The dead recalling of bones fossilized by an angry time, 1972, and a war that was not mine.
Silence has been the order of dead brain cells scandalized by the humanity factor, where silence never was for as the silence grew and matured, it became a phenomenal voice.
Listen, should one hear, this voice never dies out between a metaphorical delusional trance, ne’er desiring to dance within its own order.
Created of verse and rhyme, and often no rhyme at all, but that of storytelling about the tragedy, about the all, of the severe isolation frozen in time, to discover form to voice the suffrage, weighs heavy upon the human arm of ego.
This struggle from darkness in isolation I feel, voices uplifting in verbiage and noun, reminds me of a small town (Victoria, Tx.), feeling lost, ne’er found.
Going home was not the melody I sought, but knew had I not, would not have survived the onslaught of threat, from beast and from lore, I had to suffer to learn of style, learn so much more.
To comprehend a paradigm shifting was ne’er in sight, till one morn I grew, I grew in hindsight.
The new ideology for a truth be revealed, a mystical encounter of that which is Real.
Upon this I learnt a new word of translation, a new way to look upon this bodily disaster, clouted, thus, in form and encounter.
The struggle now weighs nigh upon nigh, as rivers rise with this earthly delight, once more of verb and of noun I chant, there remains no more visions where I claim that I can’t.
For in God I have sought, the hidden poet of Psalms, his courage ranks status, a God rights all of our wrongs.