Ramblings of a Disenchanted Spirit
Free Verse
Lying awake in bed I toss and turn
Listening to my heartbeat.
What am I looking for?
I can’t get comfortable at all.
The night is quiet, but my mind aflutter,
My body, trapped by unremembered dreams,
Burrows under the sheets to escape the nightmare.
What am I looking for?
I can’t get comfortable at all.
At work, the screen is always front-centre,
But sitting in my chair I lean this way or that
As if that slight shift will finally reveal
That elusive comfort I am itching to feel.
What am I looking for?
I can’t get comfortable at all.
An autumn evening in the park, trees sway with the breeze.
Variegated leaves amass on freshly mown lawns
Like protesters gathered against sinister plots
To thrust us into the winter of our discontent.
And I wonder staring at that duplicitous beauty
What am I looking for?
I can’t get comfortable at all.
A pandemic rages across the world.
People, trapped, desperate, discontented,
Riot for equality, understanding, and acceptance,
Railing against an uncaring divide between their fellow men.
Also, there is a scary virus spreading all over the world,
Sheathing our dead in its impartial blanket.
This, I think, wondering what I’m looking for,
Is why I can’t get comfortable at all.
I am blessed to be safe, able, and well-fed
Living in my own house, lying in a soft bed.
At red lights I pretend not to notice beggars holding signs
And that desire in their eyes coveting what is mine.
My foot is heavy on the pedal as I drive them out of sight,
Adding guilt to a heavy heart well into the night.
To assuage the guilt, I shift blame on the institution,
Who, well-funded by my tax money, should take action,
Providing the homeless with means to relearn their dignity
That I may drive without their judgment, and they without my pity.
I say this but I wonder, could I have done more,
Or they better, were our situations reversed?
Both thoughts bring back plentiful discomfort
But my reasoning is very well-rehearsed.
I see all the wrong in the world and find someone to blame.
But what good can come of it, when everyone does the same?
If everything needing fixing is someone else’s responsibility,
What is the purpose of my life if I need to do nothing?
Perhaps that is what I am looking for: a meaningful life
Through righting the wrongs wrought upon ourselves.
And perhaps that’s why I am uncomfortable, because
I am too comfortable with what I have achieved.
But what if the world doesn’t really need saving,
And my discomfort is merely insatiable greed,
That the only thing truly broken is within myself,
And that is all that ever needed repair?
But perhaps that too is an illusion stitched around me
In the shallow pursuit of external accomplishments
That last only as long as a blink of the eye
That chances upon the next fancy item to buy.
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