Thurman P. Woodfork
THE WAY THINGS SOMETIMES ARE
Now, older and wiser, I sometimes grieve
The loss of what I used to believe,
Back when youth was vital and strong,
And my ideals would brook no wrong.
Did I go too far; did I see too much?
Has my soul lost that gentle touch
That stayed my hand when anger rose,
And kept me from delivering blows
To sweep opposition from my path
And fling it away in a gust of wrath?
Way back then I could always see
Why folks sometimes disagreed with me.
I had thought patience grew with age;
But, instead there’s this silent rage
Hidden deep down inside my brain
That I must always carefully restrain
So that it can’t erupt and destroy me
Along with everything that I can see.
At times, inside, I am cold and still,
With an icy fury that gives me chills.
And I wait while my memory plays
Back through dusty, bygone days,
To the music of a haunting refrain
In a place where only madness reigns.
©Copyright August 20, 2006 by Thurman P. Woodfork
This poem prompted the response, “The Way Things Sometimes Are” – ©Copyright August 20, 2006 by Christina A. Sharik