by Bob Flanagan

In the late-night stillness,
the memories return.
Silence is never so quiet.
The voice locked away
and easily ignored during the day
slips free in the dark.
Never mind my weariness.

The anxious chatter pesters
and pecks away at my sanity.
Simple slights and petty picks pique my ire
and draw flames of anger
that rattle my mind, shoving slumber away.
I trudge over old, traumatic ground
filled with useless mires of misery.

I am lost in the familiar and 
alone in the quiet of my bedroom sanctuary,
yet surrounded by faux friends
and clever enemies that became toothless ogres.
They scar my soul with irrational threats
that thump and echo in an empty vat.

In the late-night stillness, 
my mind grinds memories to dust
that smear my soul with folly
when I wipe it, the smudge grows worse.

Yet, I don’t toss away the cleaning cloth
Myself is too valuable, finer than any coin.
So I draw near and clean the smears
that I am more than the negative thoughts
miserable musing and yesterday’s hurts and harms.

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Bob Flanagan has been writing poetry since childhood and majored in Creative Writing with an emphasis on poetry at Trinity College, Hartford, CT. His poems have been published in various publications and newspapers, including Spiritual Director’s International, the Connecticut Bards, and the New Milford Spectrum. He is also an award-winning Christian author, Chaplain at General Theological Seminary, and an Episcopal priest. He enjoys hiking the woods of Litchfield County, Connecticut, with his wife Lanie. You may find his writings here.

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