The Poetry of the Image - imagesofthejourney-com

Wild Loon


Shards of memory pierce me

broken pieces of the moon’s crystal sphere

shattered by the terrifying irresistable truth of new


crushing our old ways, cherished for the certitude they proclaimed

thus breaking my precious heart, of I who truly believed

I awake as from a dream, only it was not

leaving me living

in the fractured landscape of my life

torn by shattered illusions

Our history only tells us what we wanted to believe

I drive through unconscious streets

that know not what they do

and wince at the thought

of my home and the pain

that lives there, alone

Was it not love that was to save me?

Now I lie at night,

a hollow man in a hollow room

haunted by those memories of belief

that seemed so real

Only madness lies

in clinging to those

lies I and others invented

and yet I feel the moon's pull

It is then I remember

that only in the trees by the lake,

or the mountains bracing the earth's edges

or the oceans so filled with mystery

that I can feel hope

So I thrust my hand deep into the water and

grasp the rock that pins the lake’s edge to the earth.

So to save this empty man from the moon's tidal force

But even then

I howl in futility at that orb to save me

I see that I draw near to that point of no return, and my doom

So in desperation, lacking any firm belief,

I begin to I beg the Loons, for their wild compassion

As they know far better than I how to cut my mortal bonds

with their haunting cries honed each night

razor sharp to free us, me, stunned, and broken hearted,

injured by my desperate grasping at illusions

of forever

Yet am I too blinded by my stubborn ideologies to let them save me, in the end?

Link to loon call

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