Linda Ingraham

Quixotic not by choice, nor calling.

Quintessence unpreserved, distilled in blood,

Systematising chaos —

Senses grounded.

In love, in suffering, in madness

I search for nothing but my own self.

Cannot exhaust within this poison,

Cavernous torment that in speech stays silent.

Thus I become all men —

The cursed fate of the unknown them.

Sip this, my soul, be richer all the more and

Sear my vision with demented flight.

Unspeakable a loss 

Unheard in ecstasy of these horizons fallen.

No wings to soar,

Nor waters drowning dry

To hold onto this pain,

To die, forgot.



25 thoughts on “Angst

    • Thank you, Irene. I am certain that nothing you would say would come across as puerile. We each read and interpret in our own ways, and each reading is just as important as any other, because it comes from a place of honesty. Thank you.

  1. This one certainly seems to have been torn from some dark place deep within. Of all the powerful imagery employed, I particularly like the line ‘To hold onto this pain’. It sort of acknowledges that it is this very level of pain that drives us on, helps us to grow and even gives us hope. A great poem, Vic.

    • Thank you, Chris. You intuited right… there are some dark places our minds go to at times whether to create or to despair, or to despair in creating, it is difficult to tell — the lines get blurred.

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