Perseverance
The difficulty of keeping hope alive. A poem by Daniel Whitlow
hope is only a childhood dream —
barely remembered in twilight,
pressed flat by desperation and Insecurities’ vicious gravity,
strength bleached with blood loss —
in times of drowning, it is my breath;
in endless corridors of solitude —
only utter collapse reveals outright truth,
like strands of disbelief clinging to vapor absolution,
limbs doubting annihilation of the body —
it is my companion;
when the sun is dead, when pretense is past tense —
your skulking mockery yields abscess scars,
bridled dynasties of subordinate slave fingers, flayed and unclean,
filaments of apathy ascending through tunnels of bone —
and its death throes have quieted into expired repose;
my essence will linger —
my dreams, fantasies, visions, ambitions;
all have died a thousand times, steamrolled by the divisive and derelict demons
of despondency who circle this graveyard like vultures —
in the alleyways of hushed urban rainfall
and pastures of radiant rural sunlight —
sometimes the most oppressive darkness
burns brightest, disclosing, obscuring a world far adrift of its grief-laden horizon —
mutilation murders my memory with haunting aches —
and the hidden spaces in between;
as my voice crumbles like dust —
dizzy from Captivity’s depressing overdosing,
its frustration-fueled cocktail of cynical indignation,
the unkind touch of time, cradling lost lineages of snow —
and my eyes become a calm, blank, expanse of ocean blue;
it will scream my vibrant requiem in its eloquent dialect —
our final moments may be our greatest,
and though every second seems rife with defeat, our story will
end in triumph; more than the whole, we will be a part —
of undeniable truth;
Author’s Note
We all suffer; it is an unfortunate but necessary aspect of the human condition. Our pains and ills must have meaning — must have purpose — or we agonize and ache for nothing. If you find reasons to smile below reality’s harsh scrutiny, take comfort in the knowledge that you live with resolution. That is more than most can say.
About the Author
Daniel Whitlow received a life sentence at 17. He began writing and thought that no one would ever hear his words. He considers this opportunity — to share a part of himself he thought was lost to the indifferent, unhearing void of razor wire and concrete emptiness — to be life changing. His gratitude is beyond expression.
