Some struggles of 2012 have been enormous physical and financial challenges. That said, none can compare to the haunting literary ghosts, the shyness of my Muse (I suspect though that it was out of spite! My Muse, she is jealous!) and the endless, futile attempts at soul searching. In trying to find myself, I have found terrifying truths, and murky and shaming failures.
Legacy. That’s the one. I have found myself worrying helplessly about my legacy. About my mark and contribution to humanity.
Out of that was born this:
Ear-splitting screams tore through the fabric of silence-
Like the tongues of lighting through vast clear sky and space,
As if to echo the grumblings of the gods themselves:
To announce my birth- my genesis.
And there too the beginning of my end
Where time and age will conspire to give and then take apart
For at the birth of life is the birth of death.
But if I should with my end meet
It’d be on no terms but my sum;
Mine shall be a history by my own hand writ.
Each letter, each syllable, each phrase and praise
Crafted by these mine Muse-guided fingers,
Stilled for generations born and to come;
It shall be a footprint, a shadow, a mark inscribed in stone,
Ageless – bold as gold in the face of time
And when I am but passing memory,
When I am but dust dancing at your feet-
Inconsequential specs of nothing,
I should think they shall say I was here:
Not as mortal flesh and mind or eternal soul,
But as rippling black-hole force that moulded the very veil of space-time.
And on the wings of wind shall be echoed: “He was here. He was here.”