Read Poem: The Epiphany, by Peter D. Bové

The elegance of his faults challenged only by birds singing in nearby trees
The ghosts of poets from days gone by come to haunt him
Who is this troubled soul lost in a world of cumbersome awakening?
In shadowy inquisitions of the mind?
Of the heart?
Of the soul?
The heart of all mankind weighs on him now
As he considers the epiphany that has just occurred
Where should he go?
Whom should he tell?
So, he walks along the path he has found in the desolate woods near the crazy stream
A stream that never appears to slow down but rather crashes and crumbles rocks to the bottom
of the sea many miles away
There was a time many years before when he would have stopped and listened to the crazy
Gushing by in torrents of energy from high above the hills of time
When he could hear it speaking to him
But no more
Now he is floating in a sorrowful reverie not even he, in his wisdom could fathom
Much less explain
Words begin falling like a torrential rain in the Congo
His shoes now soaked with puddles of thought as he marches to the rhythm of free form jazz
Clamoring from the speakeasies of his mind
Like wild trumpets of angry angels in the sky
Soon he will be drowning in them and he knows it
So, he runs
Runs like a thief in the night bullets whizzing by his head
Then he leaps
Leaps with all his might high into the air like an acrobat of wonder
Making children scream soaked in popcorn and sawdust
But still the words keep falling and now the wind begins to howl
Causing the raining words to smash hard against his face
So, he runs ever faster
Runs till he can run no more and stops
Stops to catch his breath his heart pounding in his chest
Long uneasy moments pass
When he opens his eyes to find that he is alone
The demons have left him for the moment
But he knows they will return
They always do
No more can he hear the birds singing in the trees, but the stream…
The crazy stream rushes forth relentless, so he chases it
He has to catch it and ask it what it knows
He has to know
Tell me, he screams at the top of his lungs
Still heaving by his escape from the darkest demons he has yet to encounter
He falls to his knees and weeps
Weeps like a child whose puppy was squashed by a train
Now a collection of the fondest memories in blood that he cannot remember


Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

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