I know a man, brilliant.
Awake at night — sermons to the dark.
Dreams not dreamt.
Silent men are dunces.
Useless for good.
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.
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.
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