"Answers"

I recently unburied an unexpected treasure trove. Well, it's a treasure trove to me. Poetry I'd written, and which I suspected was long lost in the multitude of moves I've made.

It's fascinating (to me) and certainly a flashback to hold these original printouts (I type everything, always have, always will), complete with editing mark-ups.

And the subject matters which inspired the writing... brought back from the dusty archives of my mind (in some cases, where it should stay).

The first is "Answers". This was written after my first, and only, brief incarceration. It was a learning experience, and the point I define as "rock-bottom".

How long does it take
For a life to shatter?
Is it important how long?
Does it really matter?
Of course not.
Whether in two seconds
Or two days, the life
Is still shattered.

The more important questions
Are the How,
the Why...
It's in the answers,
Or at least, the attempts to
Answer, that a life can be
Rebuilt.
And rebuild one must,
For if a life stays shattered Long,
It dies,
Like a goldfish out of its bowl.

For me, one weekend
Cracked, and then shattered,
my life.
It's not hard to do;
All people have fragile lives --
All one must do is find the weak spot.
Mine was found.

For me, it wasn't being arrested,
Though it played a part.
It wasn't my car,
Though, it, too, played a part.
It was the one thing which brings all men,
Be they great or unknown,
To their knees.

Why did she not come?
Even a small friend would come.
Why not her?
For eighteen hours, I could think.
I'd lost my car,
My future.
But I thought of Those least.
How is she?
Is she alright?
Those are what took up my mind.

But even the question did not Hurt,
So much as the answer.
It was, of course,
An answer I did not want;
But the mind is its own worst enemy.
I could not deny the answer.
It permeated everywhere.
I could not escape,
Not even to my Hazeworld,
For it was there, too.

The answer must be true,
For only the truth has the Powers
Like the answer.
To stay,
To envelop,
To surround,
To Hurt.
And it did not stop
At eighteen hours, no
It continued,
And still does.

I have fixed all disasters
Of that weekend,
My Life is no longer
Shattered;
Yet, there is still a hole:
Why did she not come?

Reid Stanley
January 1992