Miracle To Me

[J Hillenburg]

Miracle To Me


Like some missionary of half understood disaster,

I swore that there was knowledge to be found in the night.

Content in my slavery, I served a multitude of masters

who hypnotized me with decadent and dangerous delights.

And despite every inkling of a final reckoning in the sky

I find that I have endured every hysterical, reckless plea.

A new day arises, but I would be crazy if I were to lie

and say the fact I have survived is no miracle to me.


Perhaps I am meant for something more than poison and abuse,

though for many years I pursued those deranged ends.

I swore the best of intentions while reciting a litany of excuses

that I believed could suffice in place of making amends.

I professed a talent for empathy and a willingness of the heart,

but if anyone came too close I would panic and flee.

When I consider all the sacrifices I made in the name of art

the fact that I have survived remains a miracle to me.


But those sacrifices were complicated evasions feeding desires

that I should have neglected, renounced, or even ignored.

For too long I posed as the helpless medium who forever aspires

to be free of the slavery of voices whose demands I could not afford.

I am now aware of my many natures and how they have betrayed

those who fought so hard to give me a chance to be free.

When I consider the years past and those debts never repaid,

the fact that I have survived remains a miracle to me.

[George.Wright]

This poem has a nice feel to it.
Georges