Awakening

Sleep comes with the gentle steps of an approaching day.

Only when the night-time demons abate can he find a

brief respite. Settled.

In the mire.

If he struggles he knows he will only sink faster. Power:

seems always to be at his fingertips,

but he cannot hold it in his hands,

cannot lift it,

cannot pull it into his chest. Money:

flows like water, and his earnest efforts seldom

result in better than ramshackle irrigation.

On his twenty-nineth birthday

he stares agape through pale, slate windows

at half-humans... looking for some hint of recognition,

some glimpse of hope.

He tries to build a home of his own,

never fully realizing the truth.

Days fly like pages of a book blown by a strong wind.

For years his determined efforts have seemed

clumsy and awkward.

Like constructing a house with no plans, skill,

or experience. No.

He knows that if he falls the angels will lift him up.

So though the way is hard his steps are steady.

And every day he is winning the war and losing the battles

of his life.

He stares out of the hollowed window-hole of adobe,

rain on his face

and stars in his eyes.

8.24.1994