Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

Maybe It’s Just Me

Last night in the wee hours I opened
a book of poems by
a very old and wise woman
and I found the poems to be
sublime and awful, all interwoven
and suggestive. In short,
I was afraid. And then this morning
before I closed the book
the poems were clear and concise, almost classical.

I am taking a walk down Freeman Street
to where it dead-ends creepily
into a forest with a little trail.
As I go along I find an even smaller trail
jutting off and I take that one
and when I get to the edge of the creek
there’s a clearing with a little circle
of Stonehenge-type stones
and an altar in the middle with feathers on it.
I don’t know what kind of shit this is
but I do know that
I never wanted to have power over anyone.

And I know that I have been
in a battle for the soul, and that I
have messed the devil up, and that I have died
and come back. I am sorry that men are destroying the world.

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