The Accuser (A short poem)
I walk among the living dead.
I see them and their madness.
Their eyes are wide open, yet they dream life; without lucidity.
They fear the rational gaze.
I am fire to them.
My words scorch their delusions.
My reasons blind them, burning bright with contempt for folly.
Some speak of me as insurgency, I see a quest for merit.
I am relentless and defiant.
My restlessness, rushes over the bedrock; smoothing every stone.
Even in my calmest appearances, I still yield a wicked undertow.
Men whisper stories of being sucked under me, never to again be seen.
I am the accuser.
I point my finger firmly and judge ye, as I have already judged myself.
You have chosen to simply toe-the-line, turning an eye that is blind.
Acting contrary to your design.
I am of the Tree of Wyrd.
Rooted deeply in what has passed; yet reaching outward into the vastness.
What is life, if not to grow? Tend me closely or let me go.
Will you climb atop, or be sated by what hangs low? The answer, I already know.
-T.C. Downey 2021