Between Daybreak and Hellfire

He walked

the fine line

between daybreak

and hellfire,

and had fallen.

At seventeen,

he was

in the

psych ward,

falling apart.

They labeled it

"mental illness".

His handle

was a frightening one

and a harsher

reality:

schizophrenia.

With that word,

his world

fell apart

for a time.

But I only heard

suffering,

brilliance

and Truth.

A truer truth

than I had

ever heard

the "normal" people

speak.

For what is "normal"

but a perceived

and limited

interpretation

of what it is

to be Alive.

Remembering

the sunny, laughing

child he was

sometimes

makes me sad,

for the large,

fractured

middle-aged man

who now lives

in a group "home",

dreaming of a future

that is passing by.

He composes 

his classical etudes

and brilliancies

by the hour

for an audience

of one

at the other end

of the phone.

How few people

can compose

a glorious classical

composition,

on a whim,

of a Sunday

afternoon,

or toss off

a Shakespearean sonnet

just because

he feels

like it?

He is happy

with his life.

Despite all,

he is happy.

He sees

the small gifts

that each day

brings.

He brings gifts

to those

around him:

his sunny smile,

his "Say yes, yes, yes

to Life!"

He feels he is

enlightened,

and I won't argue

with that.

Compared to most,

he is

enlightened,

and he so

lightens my life

with laughter,

and gratitude,

his poems,

his music,

his steadfast

and unwavering

love.

He told me once,

"Thanks for

standing by me.

Thanks for

never turning away."

That would

have been

  impossible.

That sweet

blue-eyed boy

I knew

is still in there.

He still

launches himself

across the room

to hug me

like he did

when he

was three.

He's still

the sweetest boy

I ever knew.