Rick Anderson is a Colorado native with a deep love of the mountains. He enjoys writing poetry and short stories.




Rick Anderson

Within the bony armor
of this disordered mind
ticks a callous timepiece;
a ruthless agent of judgment
there to punish, to remind.
Like slowly dripping water,
its monotony is unrelenting,
straining the thin threads
suspending my desperation.
Its claw-like hands reach out,
slashing honed razors,
each tick slicing deeply
into my tenuous sanity.
Teetering over the edge,
I topple into affectless isolation
and the refuge of memory.

I try but can’t remember
that one last moment
of contented silence,
that perfect frame of
simple, sweet stillness.
And I can’t always discern
realities from fantasies,
or truths from imaginings,
inside my mental carnival.
Confused and perplexed,
I ask the questions aloud
but the ghosts only laugh.
They already know the things
I have yet to learn
in the hardest of ways.

Inevitably I will learn
—I am learning—
that being alone,
being lonely always,
being nothing forevermore
is a burden far greater
than I have ever known
and I cannot bear it.
So, like the ghosts before me,
I will dream of the Boatman
and passage into the void
to surrender myself
unto the Timekeeper
and beg him to stop the clock.