I Am Not You
I am not you (breathe sigh of relief here).
No god puppets my mouth with words of guilt and shame to use as weapons against what frightens me.
Words don’t twist my tongue in illogical contortions on the useless path to judgment (stick tongue out here – wave),
and I don’t have to hide the dark side so others never see,
stuffing it down into side pockets of my soul where it festers and spreads.
I am moonlight and shadow, swift river and still pond.
I have glimpses of brilliance and dark nights of madness and both are mine,
both are the sheltered inhabitants of my path.
Fear and doubt bring questions and wonder, not hate and violence.
I am a moving image of the Divine, walking a path of mystery to an end of hope and rebirth.
I am not you.
The Ravages of Age
Pieces of me hang near and far
or float back down from where I threw them in my rage,
my legacy scattered by my frailty.
They peek out from where I lost them in my forgetfulness
and wonder if they want to come back or not.
There are days that hidden is good, that lost is safer.
But at the rate I’m spinning apart, there’ll be nothing left to die when the time comes.
Debra Doggett is a freelance writer and editor who lives in the desert of New Mexico. She has published two novels, seen one of her stage plays produced and her favorite screenplay made into a short film.
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