As a boy, alone, with a crayon you wrote <br />On the walls of your room. Now, you wail <br />Silently, so that others don't hear; <br />Bellow and moan on the page of your mind <br />Against the blood-stained silences <br />That contain you. Prison restraints <br />Are strapped in place - but still you write. <br />Your mind reaches out to find a muse. <br />Prayers to the living, psalms to the dead <br />Apologies - all these you write, <br />Riding the storm and the coming night, <br />While fighting the violent one inside, <br />Who wishes only pain on himself, <br />Too hurtfully alive for suicide. <br /> <br />I pray for that boy, tucked deep inside, <br />I pray for me, for him, for you, <br />For everyone we touched and harmed <br />And reach through the river of blood and time <br />That prevents me standing next to you, <br />To hear your imagined voice in the dark: <br />‘Brother, perhaps, you understand <br />A tithe of what we've had from life.' <br /> <br />I wish you luck and fortitude <br />Hope that you find, at last, your muse, <br />And will not hear your companions weep; <br />Tonight will finally get some sleep.<br /><br />Brian Purdy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trying-to-turn-us-to-angels-in-my-blood-for-a-p/
