Wasteland
During some tidying, I found a book that contained a poem I wrote in 1972 (more than 50 years ago!) when I was a teenager. Pensive, pretentious, questioning, yet perceived as superficial. I wonder what she was really like — that girl who used to be me. Little did she know who she would become, and I wonder if she would approve.
Wasteland of Thought
In school we were taught about the soldiers in World War I
Who dug trenches around their frontiers.
Sometimes… no, often… when I have an idea I feel is good
I will hold it close like something precious, but still doubt and question.
I carry the idea with me, pacing back and forth,
Until I create a trench around the frontiers of my mind.
The trench becomes so deep that I can no longer see out of it.
Now, when others pass by the frontiers of what I believe,
All they can see is a pitted wasteland
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