Our lives are marked by movement and change.
by Mary Black
We know this innately, yet still it seems strange.
We wrestle and grapple inside for relief,
From sadness and loss, heart-hurt and grief.
Lashing out at the world, vowing love no more,
Wounded and weakened in our inner war.
In exhaustion and weakness we finally let go,
Allowing the loss, accepting the blow.
Limping into the future, the unknown abyss
With faltering insight, a new genesis.
New focus and purpose, we're different, we're changed.
Our entire life's been savagely rearranged.
The inner dialogue screams fearsome noises,
Echoing turmoil, conflicting voices:
Should I do this? Should I do that?
Yes, no, or maybe; a fool's fiat.
Naive expectations and broken dreams
Careening about in endless streams,
Heaving us into a pit of despair;
A wounded space, a tortuous nightmare.
Feeling the victim, diminished, unloved.
Helpless and hopeless, callously rebuffed.
Releasing our dreams is painful, indeed.
Private time, quiet is what we need.
Withdrawal from a normal daily life,
Intensive care to still the strife.