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Neil Keir Henderson

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Resurgam

Sometimes I stop believing I exist,
despite my loving letters to the past
and perusal of my personalities.
Lonely in my numbness, like the rest,
I slowly let my states become confused,
albeit somewhat posthumously.

I find I cannot love myself the same
as when my sacred childhood nursed its dream  -
the son of man seemed father to his god.
As he blundered from the comfort of the womb,
his echo searched the darkness for a home,
resounding its emotional thud.

In five more minutes I'll be gone
into a timeless interface beyond
this transient substance.
There is a church between the garden and the sun
where His eye reflects upon
my spiritual convalescence.

Not being me, of course, I heed the cry  -
"Wouldn't it be effortless at least to try
to wish yourself some happiness in hiding?
How many wiser men could think away
a fraction of the pain gone by
and look toward a softer landing?"

I know that I will rise again
above the sad man standing in the rain
that haunts his spirit as a nameless guilt;
and slipping into winter's afternoon,
let desolation, dying like a swan,
come to a shuddering halt.

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