Poetry by Wim Alden (Woodstock, VT)

A more developed thought
I cannot bear

Father leads the way
With hardly a sideways glance

Brother trudges on
Keeping up, forging a duplicate trail

I sink, I swim
It depends upon the day.


My therapeutic home is adequate
I have a bed
There is water and light

But souls are gaping their mouths like baby birds
And spirits are warring for dominance
Minds struggle to warrant validity and the benefit of the doubt

Where sits the truth?
Where is the therapy in my therapeutic home?


Tell us about yourself
There is nothing you haven’t heard
Except the truth of it all


When the dust storm settles
I’ll follow the ghost of Sunday black

With the hint of evil
Upon my lips
A trace of love
On fingertips

Imaginings real
And realities cracked
I’ll follow the ghost of Sunday black

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