Pathos In The Park
I step outside of me.
I am two.
The backwards bassline and
Insistent horns play out the
Joyful music of all that is best in life.
Me one, the actor who doesn’t know
He’s on stage, is spellbound as the
Song changes, the drums pound, then
Ten thousand people, maybe more,
Fall to an awed hush and reverent murmur.
But me two is torn.
Torn from the first me,
Torn from the real me,
Torn from his friends,
Torn from the world.
He cannot bear to look around,
But dare not turn his gaze inwards.
Triumph and disaster wrestle for
Control of their unwilling host.
Neither can win, neither dare lose.
Mutually assured destruction,
To say nothing of the fallout.
Nine months later, I am almost whole,
And I sit down to write.
“There is no hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature’s mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives?” – George Eliot, Adam Bede