How far down can I be?
From the life that swallowed me.
Wandering down the same faded lanes.
Looking for mythical messages…
In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.
Where antiquated becomes motionless.
Laying about without a sound!
I would put a name to the provocation.
But am not quite sure how.
It is an unequivocal ride.
That will not end.
Not end until a name is pressed in stone.
It is the longest of journey’s home.
Freedom minus fear = FAITH
I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.
Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.
I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.
Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.
With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.
Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.
And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.
She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.
Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow
the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.
What of these vows we make. Real or imagined. Spoken or, assumed. Promises behind cupped hands.
I still collect…broken things.
My vain attempt at avenging secrets I would rather not keep.
All whimsical obligations.
Random boughs on a trail to somewhere else.
Court ordered family lies.
Often seen in charming disguise.
Ironic, but away from the pledge, I never feared that I would not make it home.
Comfort came with words and song.
I am used to collecting used things.
Marred, scarred, dented.
I built with pride..this broken home.
My brother, my sister,
Outwardly able to live a lie.
Able to forgo…the why.
Still in the darkness of sleeplessness,
their anger cries.
I rap my knuckles upon a closed door.
I hear a voice that seems like broken glass upon barefoot.
I drive pass a white horse with no rider.
‘Does it ever end?’ my one and long time friend.
She speaks in a whisper…
‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’
Skin raw and filled with excess debris.
Fingers bent and calloused.
As one, I ask,
‘do you see me?’
So this is where we lay.
Open to the chaos of black new days.
I could grow older but then maybe not.
I asked, my long time friend…
‘does this ever end?’
The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross