Wounded, I limp back from the shore
Where Iago and I dueled a week before.
Though I see no scabs nor scars,
Infection festers under my skin.
Not banshee wail,
Was his effective weapon.
What cure is there for my ail?
I sought an answer from the sea,
But there was no reply.
I requested knowledge
From the rolling hills,
An answer faint
Floated away on the breeze.
The city streets I pounded,
Pleading for release,
But it was temporary,
Ill effects of Iago’s dart,
Wolf pack of lies
Still closing in around my heart.
There are labors to perform,
So I gather my strength;
Wounds mention but not at length,
Mostly I ignore.
Floating o’er the ether,
Slipping through the speakers,
Dulcet sounds envelop the space.
No siren song luring away,
No piper’s call to come and play;
No healing light in which to bathe.
Naught but work and banter.
Yet it’s what I needed,
It seeps inside;
Finds the wolves,
Turns the tide.
I’m ninety percent there
But the day is done;
I try again the city streets.
Still no cure, but I quicken my pace.
Almost home, bits become current,
Current transduced into a familiar song;
Strength taken from the bridge:
But if you’ve got the angst or you’ve got the ardorBlues Traveler, Stand
You might faint from the fight but you’re gonna find it
For every challenge could have paradise behind it
Elation finds me
And takes away
The remaining tinge;
My skin feels whole again.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore