I sit, by the side of myself,
listening to the slow breathe
of grief in my body, watching
the pain, like some wounded
animal, curled into itself,
waiting to heal or to die,
counting the beats of heart,
remembering now and again,
to feel the sense of flesh,
sense the feel of being,
hold to the hope of new life,
held to the life of new hope,
knowing only that there is
no more than the moment,
and the quiet, still place of
loss, where, in the crept and
hidden corners, sleeps, the
truth of what once was,
dormant, silent, unknown;
and yet impossibly real.
listening to the slow breathe
of grief in my body, watching
the pain, like some wounded
animal, curled into itself,
waiting to heal or to die,
counting the beats of heart,
remembering now and again,
to feel the sense of flesh,
sense the feel of being,
hold to the hope of new life,
held to the life of new hope,
knowing only that there is
no more than the moment,
and the quiet, still place of
loss, where, in the crept and
hidden corners, sleeps, the
truth of what once was,
dormant, silent, unknown;
and yet impossibly real.
being hopeful is good.
ReplyDeleteit is good that way,
ReplyDeletegood luck.
powerful word flow.
ReplyDeleteknowledge is power.
ReplyDeleteyeah!
ReplyDeletewe all respect mother earth, there are things we could not control.
ReplyDeletefabulous imagery.
ReplyDeletesoft and gentle, very enjoyable read.
ReplyDeletelovely.
ReplyDeletesoft words, brave post.
ReplyDelete