Raymond Park

My face is red and chapped,

But the heat, the rain, the snow –

They will not still this relentless complaint.

I must be heard.

And so I return to this place.

Daily, I pour out my complaint,

But no one listens;

I beat the air.

I preach to the wind.

I wait.

I have trampled the life around me,

This circle of dead grass is an altar to my pride.

I will not move forward until my complaint is heard,

And so I return.

Maybe tomorrow change will come;

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have my answer;

Maybe tomorrow I won’t need to return.

Where would I go?

This circle has become my home;

My complaint my closest companion.

I am tormented by the weight of it;

I am fearful of freedom;

I am ruined.