A Stroke Of Luck

Impressionist Painting by Carola Richards

As sickeningly disturbing thoughts trouble me.
Through the night, unshakeable, too strong.
The chaotic vividness vexes my thoughts long and hard.
No patience left to try and sleep anymore.

As I think of the tree that grew before I did.
And the lonely man who brought his axe upon it.
Providence showed him the way to that trunk.
That could not be found in the blinding light of day.

For only after it was taken down did I rise from its boughs.
Only after it fell could I grow and prove my mettle.
It was merely by chance that I stand here bearing fruit.
It is simply a matter of luck that my roots even exist, let alone be settled.

And as those thoughts drive my mind away from the pangs
Of unendurable torture of painful sleeplessness.
I shake away the covers that I'd drawn near to protect myself
From the frigid air inside me, incomplete in its stillness.

I sit with my back straight and my mind bent.
Bent to no will, but merely to perturbing sentiments.
What if the man with axe never came.
What if I never existed; never grew once again.

Would the images remain as they do now.
Unknowingly graphic in their clarity as I see them.
Or would I be lost in the myriad open spaces of the wilderness.
Searching for a way to arise, set my roots, find my space.

I merely got lucky as I did and believe I still am and hope to remain.
Luck is what happened to me when I could wait no longer.
Luck is what happened when my will was bent and broken.
I must not ever give up that stroke of chance now, and forever more.