Oh, to emerge in shining fettle,
abandon the crush of terror,
bask in obscure shadow
of bliss. Aching for absence
to reveal the source, the escape
from chaos. Once I was admired
like Prometheus, bound above
a gorge, far from brook or field.
A pathetic figure to mystify
the curious and clueless.
A lesson against stealing sustaining
fire from the gods. Until I stopped
scoring victories, momentous
and trivial. Until the shift in my
perception: a virtual stretch
beyond (present details that confine
frustration to) muted jeremiads
never uttered aloud. I choked
on crucial need for intersection
between activity and purpose.
Whether by accident or grace.
They say the skin in its
entirety is an organ. A gathering
of cells coalescing
to render the spirit sharp
and sentient during its mortal
exile, to carve our intrusion
into a benevolent void.
Christopher Stephen Soden continues to pursue the improvement of his craft by way of perseverance, exhilaration and grace. He teaches, lectures, reviews theatre, and is exploring the mysteries of writing plays. He is a co-founder and erstwhile president of The Dallas Poets Community. His short plays (Water, A Christmas Gift, Radio Flyer, Every Day is Christmas. In Heaven.) have been produced by Bishop Arts and Nouveau 47. His work has appeared in Rattle, The Cortland Review, Glitterwolf, Sentence, Chelsea Station, The Gay and Lesbian Review, among numerous venues. He shares digs with Chloe and Kitty-Kitty. He loves curry, showers, borscht, naps, live theatre, and the perpetuity of infinite calm. End the Fascist Regime.