musing on grief

Though grief only sickens once or twice awhile, the apathy, my infirmity of seeing only darkness- mine, but not mine alone, pervades my mind and deteriorates my vision, my senses. I cannot feel I cannot try.

mothered.

I will never be mothered again. deliver, dispense but never receive my mother’s love has gone.

Thalassa

with the world depleting and convulsing in it’s last breath -not man’s evil, it’s own- is dying, being killed, the carnage in the depths, the heights in the waters, so mysterious so expansive, horrifyingly mystic kidnapping and harassing, stripping bear all stripping control, all.

Downward Mobility

In creating, though upward I ascend in aspirational joy -energized downward, I spiral in my context’s prevailing axiom for “life’s good.” Upward, Upward I should trudge forth or irrelevent, inconsequential, irresponsible I shall be. Could it be -this paradigm- serves all but me? Shall I reject the construct that to be happy, I must debase…

Margins

Margins are critical for the integrity of this home and anxiety erodes the foundation. the stable one, unable to keep the walls anchored, holding on with all her strength is anguished, is depleted she falls and is crushed beneath the impossible weight of her expectations. She did not accept the reality that she could not hold…

storm.

Chaotic torrents of fear consume and dominate; disrupting my days in womanly and oppressive ways I fear the time, the transitions and damage to the bonds. For though the bonds are strong, the gusts of shame overcome me with puissant aggression threatening my grip on you.

My Life Blood

I am marked by the sorrows of my neighbors. The cries I receive trickle down permanently through my skin seeping into my blood nourishing me: Insatiably, I thirst to be needed For in sharing in the horrors of those near of those despairing I experience God in a tangible way.

wonder

I wonder what could have been had there not been forbearance for, bearing you has irrevocably altered me transformed, transfixed me. my wonder leads to sorrow, not longing (at least not for long) for in my wonder I remind myself to dwell not on if but is.

Who Is?

Betrayed by kin, Neglected by them for the mechanism Of my body Has ceased And my humanity Suppressed for the first time Perhaps, for all time left for dead There is no life here You may not have life here.  

Hostage to your Perception

When my life of insatiable movement has been tethered, and my legs, my hands shackled, stagnant for all time: Who will they say that I am?