Poem: 43
Wednesday, 15 February 2017

That critic voice

Always with me
In my head
That voice
That critic voice.

Richotet of irrational
Panics, anxieties, fears, insecurities
Anti-gospels of impending woe
Never tiring of
Tormenting me with
Condemnations, frustrations

I want to hear from
That other voice:
Still small whisper, bearing
Good tidings of great joy, proclaiming — 
To us, to us is born
A hope, a future!

Resound over hill and vale,
Murmur along the brook,
Whistle in the trees, the good news: that
Perfect is even
The tiniest detail
Of the things we
Feel most ashamed by,
Most afraid of.
Including, especially, ourselves.
That there is a reason for everything.
That the rational position is Joy,
And the Courage to speak.

Begone, begone ye nightly terrors!
Ye are not welcome in my head,
Nor in my bed, nor in any place — 
But a cotton candy prison
With a fruity pebble path!

A Grail castle of tragedy,
Undone by the simplest,
Commonest act of spontaneous,
Kindness ye can render.

Render such acts, Percival
Ye questing Samaritan knight 
To a suffering stranger, ye meeteth on the path

And ye shall find, 
That Stranger is you!
And that path, your truth path…

To yourself.