The Cave

Have you ever been at the edge of your mind at all?
I don’t mean “the end of your rope” or “the last straw.”

I mean when you didn’t know it was you.
When you look at those you love and wonder who.

Now that I have clarified my question
Let me make one suggestion.

Answer it only if you have been to the true edge of your mind.
Answer it only if you have truly left sanity behind.

I ask of those of you who qualify “what did you see there?”
I'm no voyer you see, I only wish to compare.

Oh! How rude of me to ask you to share first.
I have been over that edge but, I was never coerced.

I stand on the precipice, looking below.
There I see all the things I didn’t want to show.

Like an unscrupulous corporation dumped all its toxic waste.
There was all the bad and painful I had done and faced.

The fumes rising from my mental filth make me light headed.
I slip over the edge while viewing all the things regretted.

Falling, I grasp and claw at the sheer cliff face of my mind.
Falling and falling, clawing and clawing, until the proverbial handhold I find

I begin my assent; fingers of despair try to drag me to the bottom of the edge of my mind.
About my legs, arms and waist, the tendrils of despair wind.

Those tendrils and fingers of despair cause twice the effort.
Tired and desperate, I seek shelter and support.

As those fingers and tendrils sap my strength like a tidal wave.
I see my cruel savior, I see my cave.

I pull myself up an in, panting like a dog.
The fingers and tendrils disappear into the fog.

In my cave, I savor moments of needed rest, but I also know.
That this cave is where resentment and self loathing grow.

I arise and begin to tour my cave,
With each step I lose control wave by wave.

You see this cave contains no paintings of ancient men.
Just list after list of my failures and short comings for me to read over again.

I have taken that last step where I was in control.
One more step and memory becomes a great black hole.

Beyond my next step I will only remember bad and only feel pain.
Beyond my next step is assurance that I am insane.

Now with only pain for memories and no real control
I travel involuntarily deeper into my cave, reviewing my soul.

Torment from things seen and heard, most not real.
But pain all the same as my heart is gouged by claws of steel.

I sob like a child as I beg my tormentor to end this hell.
But I know he will not, I know him and he knows me well.

I could have stopped this madness hours ago with a simple pill
But I didn’t take it because of the pain the pill makes me feel.

So look at this mess now, the pain and agony.
And all knowing that the tormentor is me.

I wonder what I am doing right now. Will I remember? Will that memory be true?
Oh the hours I have spent wondering “what did I actually do.”

I can no longer look at these cave walls with their lists of failures and sins.
I must stop this now, and this is where the stopping begins!

Madness cannot prevail; I throw myself to the cave floor.
And for a fleeting moment I think I see the face of the one I most adore.

Then that sound, that sweet lullaby,
Urges me back, struggling to return, I cry.

Each tear, each step, I return to the points of memory and control.
Tired and drained, my cave always takes its toll.

All the way back to the mouth of the cave I return
I pause and hear the voice for which I yearn.

“You must finish your climb up” the Angelic voice urges.
Remembering the fingers and tendrils of despair, my fear resurges.

But that sweet voice, I know it says true.
Yet I shudder, thinking of what I must do.

I reach for the edge of the cave and begin to climb out of my cave.
My Angel above me wants me to be brave.

I begin my climb and I look down so my Angel cannot see my tears.
She has not been over this edge nor in my cave, she cannot know my fears.

I struggle, each handhold dripping, slippery and wet.
A rainstorm? No, it’s my Angel’s tears. She has not given up yet.

Filled with love, hope and my Angel in my sight I continue my assent.
The tendrils of despair lash up at my legs, a tearing sound as my blue jeans are rent

Scrambling, slipping, bleeding, I see the top and what I know to be real.
I long to be back up there, no despair lashing at me, I need time to heal.

Hold by hold, my hands feel the top.
I pull myself up, now I can stop.

My Angel seems to understand, as I weep gently in her arms.
I am ever grateful for her love, patience and her charms.