I was a melancholy man

but why

I did not know.

My guilt,

a cloud that topped

a hill.

The one set for my feet

to climb.

 

So guilty cloud, I wish you gone.

For I can

see you as you are.

You made me

spend my life away,

trying to be

that which I thought

would please

my fellow man.

 

Sadly the years have grated by.

My legs

are tired with the hill.

My face,

burnt by sun and wind,

turned up

to seek a distant peak,

the one

I cannot gain.

 

So now I’ll rest to touch a flower.

Come to terms with who I am.

Then write a verse

to tell the world.

I am not what

I thought,

they thought,

that I should really be.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1990