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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Nothing at All

I try very hard to be brave
in the face of nothing at all.
In the face of boring authority,
the dialogue of my morning dread,
streets that do not welcome me.
Indifferent places
where I have no place,
where I am a nuisance,
a mumbling sprite with uncombed hair,
part of the fog of an overcast day.
A man facing a perpetual Monday,
an overripe apple.

That is the nothing I’m afraid of,
the nagging headache,
the uncertainty of the certain.
To be alive,
a seed swelling from a flower,
a bird in its bath,
an eagle at the edge of air.
To fall deeply from a gravitationless star,
daring death in a challenge,
swimming with a shark,
bothers me not at all.

I am brave enough to live,
to fall,
to meditate in my shadow,
to cast myself into night.
But to be bored,
to be silly,
to treat stupidity with gravity,
that I have no courage for,
no patience,
no hope.
From that I will run
like a frightened leopard,
and climb to the highest branch of a tree,
and pray for salvation,
deliverance,
until danger returns.

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