Washed from Fear [poem]

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washed_from_fear

Fear is how you are controlled;
not only by the ones who you allow
(for now) to rule your life
[like politicians, chemists, TV pundits,
teachers, gurus, presidents and papers,
governments and parents,
social programmes,
children, husbands, wives]
[for none deserve to rule in any way
or over anything {that’s just a trick
that’s used to geld your prick and balls
or steal your Queenship, trawl the fish
from out your realm and see (or sea)}];
but also most of all, my lightless friend,
you’re filled with fear of DEPTH
lest you should go beyond
your normal comfort zone
and find with horror that
you’ve strayed too far from “home”
and, thus afraid to wander any more,
you hide inside the place you think
is refuge… then you lock the door.

Fear is how you are controlled;
not only fear of depth pervades your soul
but most especially fear of DEATH —
the MOTHER OF ALL FEARS —
who drapes her rotting cloak across your back.
Your terror then (of being you no more)
will subsequently steer you
so you only walk on one bleak track
to nowhere but a pit whose colour’s black,
thus finding that you’re in a worse state
than the one you thought that death
would put you in (the dreaded might-have-been).

Fear is how you are controlled;
but yet it’s only when you let yourself
stand ALL ALONE and ON YOUR OWN
stripped bare to naked neonatal
wombfulness and in the middle of an ocean
or some unplumbed prison made of stone
(the centre of the earth maybe
or on some distant planet out in space
where you can roam unhindered by
the headwind of your prison guards
{but always preferably somewhere that
you feel abandoned, lost and out of place})
will you — unhooked from anchors made of clay —
resurface to the searing blaze of heaven’s day.
Then, free from false security and thus relieved
of ersatz roles and fake responsibilities,
will take your place in worlds made new
and then, washed clean, be free to live as you.

© Alan Morrison, 2016

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