Joseph Crowe Poetry

I rise, son of the morning,

into the warm seat of your soul.

You know the job I do for you:

cut at your nerves to keep you going.

You feed me so many juicy doubts,

rich rivers of anxiety, until I'm saturated,

prodding you from choice to choice.

And where's the harm?

You serve me freely.

I pinch a fear; you bend like a reed.

I steer you with small moments

of discomfort, gentle ox,

big helpless brute.

You forget I am made of mind,

that fragile restless wind.

One moment an apparent thing,

the next: dissolving apparition.

You could starve me with neglect,

poison me with optimism,

erode me with constructive thoughts

like rough tongues of waves on a shore.

But you don't dare.

You wouldn't abandon the guide of your life.

Morning star, light-bringer, steering you away

from every dark danger, real or not.