Once I lay unwillingly awake in bed
And cried and tried to rid myself
Of an unwitting image-bearer’s image;
Now I sit awake at midnight here,
Weeping for the height from which I’ve tumbled,
From nothing more than habit.
Once my pen raced back and forth in haste,
Writing lines I could not — cannot — fathom
Even when my moments are most lucid;
Now I sit at midnight here,
Fingers tapping words mechanical at best,
Staring into the night.
(Crossposted to my wiki. This is this poem’s first appearance in public
; it is not on my Calvin homepage. As always, comments, questions, concerns, criticism, suggestions (especially for a real title or what to post next), or other feedback are welcomed and greatly appreciated.)