A life ill spent
Through no fault of my own,
But drowning
In a muddy well
Of confusion
And pain
And oblivion,
Obnoxious toxic stale fetor
Permeating every pore and inhalation
As people passed on by,
Stuck inside their own dazed state of busyness,
Unseeing, unknowing, unaware,
Until one had the grace
To stop and notice
The floundering and muffled cries for help
And reach out a hand,
Unnoticed at first,
Then wilfully ignored from deep
Feelings of unworthiness,
But their strength
tolerance
Steadfast manner
And the grace of God
Won through in the end,
Patiently reassuring time and time again
Their intention was true and honest,
They did care,
They could be trusted
To not let go,
The forged in stone connection could not be broken
By man or foe,
In spite of devilish attempts to the contrary,
So I reached out my hand
To grasp
This longed for beacon of hope,
Tentatively at first,
Fingertips brushing gently against each other, but
Slowly and surely,
Step by step,
Bit by bit,
Until the foregone conclusion,
And Phoenix like,
Though blind and bedraggled
With muddied feathers for sure,
I am risen from a well of melancholia and oblivion,
To the bright light of day,
Drinking in the hitherto unknown golden orb,
And breathing in the fragrant rose bloom
Of hope and emancipation.