By: Fergus Carty
Grey curtains of rain were not enough,
To hide the tears on a bleakened field
And howling wind could not snatch away,
The angry shout to imagined heaven.
A cold sunny day could not quench,
A fired ego dwarfed by a small hillside.
Stumbling half-fallen over blades of grass,
Puffing arrogantly into a deflating self.
A sterile room turned sheet to shroud,
Could not perfect a lifeless death mask.
Stood, stared, in conflicted company
And re-wrote, edited, a total confusion.
Hands robotically offered amidst the incense,
Scribbled formulas, unfolded from memory, mumbled.
When hands were better clasped in silence,
Solace derived from the background murmur.
No wringer existed to squeeze the moisture,
From impervious pillow case covers.
The yellowing ledger cannot discount,
The one to whose name never answered.
Why do I now take these slim volumes from the shelf?
To proof read passages all out of print?
Why do I now leaf through dog eared pages?
When there is a mirror in the hall in which to view myself…
Fergus Carty
"We can let circumstances rule us, or we can take charge and rule our lives from within."
-Earl Nightingale
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