Tangled in an invisible web.
Anchored where trouble sulks,
and anger sneers at every turn.
Positioned to rob the spirit from me
if I have the guts to be myself.
If I risk being who I am.
God forbid that I be me.
That I let my hair down.
That I dare relent to my ambitions.
It’s odd you know!
I’ve witnessed nearly sixty years soar by
and have only now uncovered within me
the smell of revolt.
frayed by expectations, demands.
Seems so silly! At your age?
You might accuse,
if you stood me face to face.
Hagar Shipley rebelled at a ripe old age.
Margaret Laurence said she started smoking at ninety.
A senior citizen being difficult!
I’m a chink in someone’s armor.
The saintly woman of thirty odd years
sloping in deformation.
‘Heading for hell’, I hear tongues
in righteous judgment cackling.
Words and opinions chomped
like a cow chews her cud.
“Why, after all this time?
Hypocrites, the lot of you!”
If they knew me,
they’d know I’m not one of them.
Hypocrites are actors,
And damn good ones at that.
I…I can’t hide my sins.
Sinfulness shrinks me to ruin.
I puke and my wounds fester
when I’m grieved by someone.
Or worse, if I’m the one to do such harm.
I’ve been deposited in this cell to rot,
the atmosphere rank.
My feet in quicksand,
I’m stuck and going down fast God!
Please! Where is the key?
I seemed to have misplaced it!