Where the river Styx meets the shore,
where Charon’s boat lies for anchor,
where I stepped off the vessel
returning to where I was so unceremoniously
bundled into the lower decks,
I saw.

I had inner compound eyes and the sharpness
of an eagle. I looked down at the topography
of my life and saw rivers turning back
onto themselves, sinkholes of life’s random 
disasters, enormous canyons
carved out of dissatisfaction, 
gentle lakes of passing beauty taken over
by poisonous algae, deserts from droughts
I had inflicted on a once verdant landscape.

There were the Himalayas of my expectations,
the Andes of my most joyful moments,
the Alpes where I searched for 
the mystical blue flower.
And then I knew.

That search had created the limitation
of my geography. I had hunted the unattainable
while fields lay fallow, weeds conquered all,
small houses and enormous constructions crumbled,
the sheep and cows--skeletons of negligence,
species I hadn’t even known lived in me--extinct.

The world could have been mine while
I idled, doubted, sowed out empty seeds,
procrastinated at great speed.

When I returned from the Underworld,
I threw open the borders, righted the rivers,
mowed the meadows, vanquished the weeds,
and strapped on the wings I hadn’t yet used
for fear of falling.
                        

The lethargy struck together with the monster virus.
When the worst of the coughing was over, when the fever
had left, when I could breathe freely again, I thought
I could pick up my life where I left off.
Instead, there was total fatigue. Brain fog.
Too tired to think. 
Too tired to plan a future.
Too tired to write.
Too tired to smile.
Too tired to dream.
Too tired to be afraid.
Too tired to hate.
This poem doesn’t like to be written.
My fight no longer wants to be fought.
Climate crisis? Let it happen. The latest news?  Who cares
about Ukraine. Trump? There is a faint echo of outrage.
White supremacists? A discreet wake-up call but not enough
right now. The UK prime minister is an idiot?
They all knew that when they voted for him.
Every day seems an effort, life
itself bends under the load of its weight.
Tired words stretch like bubble gum.
Would I be a hibernating bear, safe in the knowledge
that nothing was asked of me but sleep.
                        

I fear you have pegged me with your expectation,
have created me in the image
someone prepared for you.
If all you can see 
is black and white, look again.
Search for colour within
colour, shape within shapes.
Within.

Stay for a while, calm, open your heart
and your mind.
Listen.
I may not be what you expected,
but I can give you peace.