There is rest to be found in laying down,
laying to close your eyes to sleep,
down weapons the peace to keep.
fought any word wars lately, conflict leaves emptiness,
emptiness of a life that was once full and rich,
leave us love, like trees limbs stark and cold.
plunging into life every day, like it is like a lake put on cold till spring,
until at the bottom the depths of cold, trap and bring,
aspiring hope that there is a flicker of life to survive.
the inability to be two people, both me and you when you can't be you,
you the child safe and warm, where no harm can find and
Be, to become the adult confident and strong with a
SONG,
A Paint Brush,
INK,
Fibre Arts,
CANVAS,
****, where did you go,
I SEE YOU, but you are no longer in THIS ROOM,
sorry don't mean to shout,
ideas scattered
across the floor
to cover,
a path to dance on............... out
of the forest of trees,
that you cannot see
until you leave
until I leave
the line of trees all so aged
that mark, where we came from,
a "scots" Pine, that is a Norway Pine,
make up mine,
yours a white Oak, your skin so fine,
by design, those English,
and in each season, the unreasonable,
tears at the bubble, let the peace out up and away,
using up all your spoons before you can climb out of bed,
and the bucket will go down the well to get water but, oh
dear the bottom has fallen out and the hemp rope is in such disrepair
it gathers on a wheel called despair, as the needles of the trees fall
about the place and the oak leaves tumble in the refreshing wind but get tripped up by the
acorns.
all these black edged pine needles,
scattered floating lifeless on the well water,
all these black edged oak leave clusters
you deserve show their worth,
while that black cloud
RAGES
over head and fills the air with dread,
that something will be found, amiss,
and the volcano will show up
and the lava will flow
and will wilt me
like a lettuce leaf,
in the sun of summer.
Not that it brings hope....
but it has to.
sometimes being a partner with someone who is battling depression, anxiety, the physical pain and fatigue of both, tears down and rips apart personal organization, doubles up a load somedays, what was always difficult to keep together, gets lost and giving up becomes part of vocabulary, there are good days but fewer and fewer, and if no one reads this, I have given it a voice, not the depression, but the part of her, the small part of her that has the heart, that has the fight, that survives each day maybe I need to get out of the way.