As a boy, alone, with a crayon you wrote
On the walls of your room. Now, you wail
Silently, so that others don't hear;
Bellow and moan on the page of your mind
Against the blood-stained silences
That contain you. Prison restraints
Are strapped in place - but still you write.
Your mind reaches out to find a muse.
Prayers to the living, psalms to the dead
Apologies - all these you write,
Riding the storm and the coming night,
While fighting the violent one inside,
Who wishes only pain on himself,
Too hurtfully alive for suicide.
I pray for that boy, tucked deep inside,
I pray for me, for him, for you,
For everyone we touched and harmed
And reach through the river of blood and time
That prevents me standing next to you,
To hear your imagined voice in the dark:
‘Brother, perhaps, you understand
A tithe of what we've had from life.'
I wish you luck and fortitude
Hope that you find, at last, your muse,
And will not hear your companions weep;
Tonight will finally get some sleep.
Brian Purdy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trying-to-turn-us-to-angels-in-my-blood-for-a-p/
