by Alice Miller
Illusions can haunt us like ghosts.
Wounding us with pain that is real.
Confused and blinded by clouds of smoke,
Lost in a fog, we stumble through the silence.
Illusions are specters without substance.
No more solid or real than the nightmare
From which we waken terrified, crying out.
And in the light of day, we put away our fears.
Like clouds, lying on the ground, they hide our path.
We stumble, sometimes fall, crying out in pain.
Blinded by our tears and fears,
We can't even see that the wound is not deep.
We struggle on, in our pain and fear.
Not knowing whether we are on the right path,
Not even knowing if there is a path any more
Listening for a sound, a voice, a call.
Sometimes we think we hear it, but we are not sure.
The sound is muffled by the fog of unreason
That penetrates our mind, forbidding us to think.
Still we struggle on, grabbing for some faint ray of hope.
Deprived of our senses, drifting on some storm-tossed sea
Feeling helpless, hope waning, our lives out of control.
Finally we give up, stop thrashing about, begin to float.
We think we hear something, but we are not sure.
At last, fingers of light begin to creep over the horizon,
Feeling their way into the smoky, four A.M. darkness.
Out of the fog, mountain peaks and then a sandy beach appear.
A breeze stirs, the birds begin to sing, it's dawn.
There on the shore, under a sheltering tree,
Beside a quiet inlet, is our refuge, our home.
Waiting calmly, peacefully, for our return.
Someone built a fire; I can smell the coffee!