The Eternal Cycle
By Beverly Greene
NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without the author's expressed and written consent.
I feel so young
to be so damned old.
In the mirror
the reflection
of an older woman
stares back
critically
but I feel
the longings
and insecurities
of the little girl
she once was.
She tells her
how ugly
she is
and that
no one
will ever
find any
beauty
in her
to love.
She frowns
and chastises
with a voice
she's heard
before
when she
was the little girl,
before she was needed
to take over
the job of hate.
Back then
the adults
did it
for her,
now the responsibility
to carry on
what they taught her
rests on her
weary shoulders.
I see a tear
sadly trying to escape
as she warns
the child
against hope,
love,
attachment,
for she can see,
be clairvoyant,
know what lies ahead.
But the child
is so strong
and brave
and she fights
to hold on
to life.
She doesn't want
to be the old zombie
trying to stomp out
any spark of life.
She's so little,
so innocent
and she only
asks for,
begs for,
pleads for,
bleeds for
love.
She wraps
her arms
around her tiny
fading body,
her tears
burning a hole
in her chest,
digging into her heart,
trying to rip
it out with
their beast-like claws.
The old woman
looks at
the small,
broken spirit
helplessly
crawling across
the floor
searching for
the innocence
she somehow lost.
The old woman
laughs
because she can not cry
and she wishes she
could help
the girl find it
again
since she knows
where it is.
But she can't.
She can't enter
that dark corner
alone again.
She knows
where it is
because her innocence
was stripped away
there too.
She fears
for the little girl,
she sees her future
in the horror
of herself.
She dies,
wanting,
needing to help
but unable
to go back
to her own
demise.
She falls,
tired and broken
to the ground.
The little girl
holds her gently
in her growing arms
as she melts into
the grey dress
of grandma's
and hides behind
the eyes of dad.
The tears are gone.
The reservoir dried,
she looks up
and sees herself
from the old woman's
place of existence.
She's still there,
scampering around
on the floor,
tears flooding
the room
with their dry sorrow.
She urns to be
the one to hold her,
to help her,
to heal her,
her self.
She remembers
the secrets,
the place
where she
was turned
into what,
who she is.
She feels
such a strong
pain piercing
through where
her heart had been.
She knows
she has to help
the little girl
go back,
reclaim.
But she's afraid.
She can't go back again.
She can't be there,
where the little girl is,
she doesn't
have the strength
to endure any more.
She feels herself
weakening
more with each
thought of hate,
each word of scorn
she can't stop
from uttering
to the power of
the child's hope
for love.
She wants so badly
to run to her
and guide her home,
safely,
but she's too old
to be that young
again.
She can't do it.
She falls to the floor,
tired and broken
and the child,
her,
me,
holds her,
me
as we die
all over
again.
The secrets
get passed down
but not before
I find the strength
to be another
little girl
for her to belittle
and hate.
The cycle of life
and death
goes on.
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� 1999 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.
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