by Richard Vince

Every season is new; this
Winter is not like any other
That has been before, or
Any other that will come
In future years.

I do not remember any night
Quite like this one.
The streetlamps have never
Caught the puddles and
Rivulets of thawing snow
In quite the same way as
They do now, as they fade
Into the distance of the
Parts of journey behind me.

Somewhere, somehow, I feel that
I knew it would be like this,
The miles of uncertainty
And hope spreading forth
In front of me as oil diffuses
Into the water occupying
The imperfections in the roads.

In my head I hear my voice
Breaking its long held silence
To scream an as yet
Untranslated message to
The horizon encircling me.

But all ears save my mind's
Listen to other things, and so
My voice goes unheeded
Except by one who cannot
Understand it.

So the people illuminated by
Distant lights offer no
Response, and I remain
In my personal darkness.

I feel a terrible uncertainty
Forming in my soul that
I am asking a question that
Only one can answer, and
That my voice is stunted
By the closeness of my horizons.

Perhaps this newly awakened
Voice needs time to grow
In strength before it can
Conquer the boundaries
In which it resides.


Posted on 02/25/2005
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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