Beach and Waves

The Lump

I find myself on the verge . . . .
surveying a field of scarlet
agony, an emotional landscape
clutching me, drawing me down,
like Psyche’s dragon
with talons
sharp as sarcasm,
pointed as wit,
dry as tears
of dusty years gone by
when I was not looking.

I find myself on the shore . . . .
wading in the rolling whitecaps
of insecurity, a sea of misgiving
drowning me, tearing my soul
like Prometheus’ raven
with a beak
harsh as distrust,
piercing as doubt,
rough as faith
in unknown gods who die
while I am not looking.

I find myself on the cliff . . . .
standing at the edge of a precipice
of dismay, an abyss of bewilderment
inviting me, calling my spirit
like Icarus’ wings
with feathers
light as anxiety,
waxen as worry,
soft as fear
of a future failing because
I may not be looking.

And the tears . . .
and the uncertainty . . .
and the tears . . .
and the lump in my throat
that won’t go away . . .
and the tears . . .
and the tears . . .
always the tears . . . .

– by C Eric Funston, 11 September 2014