And If

If I had wings — perhaps I would fly;

But knowing myself, I would more likely

Flap my weak wings futilely —

Pride in the slight breeze created,

And not in the distances covered.

And if my voice could carry out to the hall,

Maybe I’d shout, exclaim, jubilant words —

Yet I can only whisper — whispering to

Abandoned books and dead trees;

So I shout in my mind.

And if I could dream, I might make them

Come true — but what is the point,

When my truth is already a dream,

And my dreams nightmares?

And if my heart was strong, fear would leave.

However, there is only feebleness, and these fear:

Fear of heartbreak and loss,

And the great fear of fading softly.

Yet I can only whisper, weak thoughts from a weak heart.

And if I could be inspired — so inspired I would allow

Myself to be! I would climb mountains and save

Unfortunate souls and fly, run, and never slow.

But alas, inspiration is that helpful arm,

So well intentioned, so kind and welcoming,

That will never be enough —

For under that fragile and empty heart

Is a body full of sin, uncleansed, uncleanable —

A weight both excessive and atrocious.

But if I could be redeemed, and somehow,

Miraculously, find myself fresh and with newfound strength,

What would I do?

How — what could I do?

My days are if’s and only if’s:

My broken existence is painful, insufferable, yes indeed;

So my only contentment, if there is one,

Should be putting the lonely if in life.