My children, My Children.

I know a man, brilliant.
Awake at night — sermons to the dark.
Ideas unknown.
Dreams not dreamt.
Visions unseen.

Silent men are dunces.
Morons.
Imbeciles.
Lobotomized.
Useless for good.

Myself.
Sitting always — wondering why I couldn’t walk.
Eyes shut — questioning why I couldn’t see.
A self-surrendering prisoner of war.
Below a coward — beneath the dead.

Older found his voice.
Fits and starts younger, yes.
Unwelcome thoughts — awkward speech.
Rejected as a Preacher.
Truncated ideas force fit into the conventional, the acceptable.

Not living.
Biologically existing.
Drowning alive.
One year  I swore — let me die.
Childbirth is painful — did that happen?

I write now.

Riches flee I labor.
If one changes I win.
If words strike I am happy.
I draw blood — I smile.
The silent are allies to their enemies — their own prison guards.

I write — I live.
Happy.
Content.
Proud, yes.
The grave welcomes. Smile.  Peace.

Not today — more to say.
When I go I discharge the debt.
The burden eternal.
I write that they live.
My children, my children.

Fritz Berggren, PhD
24 Oct 2020

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