Into the Abyss
The sense of loss
pushes in upon the edge of thought
altering the fate of lines,
the rings in a mandala’s design.
How many deaths do we endure
on the way to the center?
How many breaths restore
a sense of balance
for a mind spinning in circles?
Unmoored introspection
glancing out or looking within
whatever the predilection
that distorted image at the end of the portal
completes our reflection.
Thoughts, impressionable words torn from books,
lifted from venerable drawers in the earth,
bloodied, soiled, pulled from the root,
hung on the walls
like a bouquet of moss
drained of all hope,
memories, frail flowers
gone up in smoke.
The loss of a child invokes the deepest sympathy
but a choice of words cannot encompass its totality.
They cannot net, comfort nor comprehend
for no one will experience an end in the same way.
Words out of scope to its scale
varied is the infinite it will veil
in those living to one day embrace
a fragmentary trace of its meaning.
Words won’t be there to buffer the shockwaves
they cannot fill the emptiness
of standing over their graves
no word can capture the feeling
of glass wounds from a shattered ceiling
that transparant canopy of innocence
falling in shards
safety’s a house of cards
once sturdy as stone
now crumbling into sand
washing into the unknown.
Loss brings with it a sense of permenance.
No purpose to positively identify
what’s in passing.
Recurring states of arrival and departure
where endings become beginnings.
Between them we’ll suffer our goodbyes
tested by all we’ll leave behind
longing for one firm memory of cohesion
to secure as an anchor
in this turbulent harbor.
The shadow of loss creeps up behind
to follow at your heel.
Dodge the knowledge if you must
but inevitably it will reveal,
while it overtakes you,
a mark on your life’s canvass
a subtle residue in the lines
of your most guarded expressions.
The scent of loss in the clothes of closure
for the mother of the disappeared
only will cry when she’s alone.
Carefully tending to what she can control
planting a garden over the now gaping hole.
Scratch the surface to see the scars
the aftermath of fire, the runaway cars,
the silence of a vacant road
her baby discarded and unclothed.
Carefully examine her eyes
to find sharp inquiries
into all the questions “why?’
Why me indeed
dropped in deep pools of sorrow
deep pools from heavy rain
to gaze into her pain
and find your reflection.
She’s a precious flower of deception
facing sunsets, appearing strong
but frozen this flower
enduring the greying winter long
accepting change
as another season falls away
pictures fade and family portraits crack
enduring love fills the space
holding up what it lacks.
Holding on for so long
without letting go,
all the pain dissolves into itself
from the night she received the news
by word of mouth
that the light in her life
has suddenly blown out.
A once sound haven
now full of decay
a harsh wind stirred up the surface
carrying the precious particles away
like a sudden impact
in the loose sea floor sand
everything swirling in the current
being carried further and further from land.
The setting sun meets the sea
giving up its deep
the sorrow from all the rivers we’ll weep.
Thoughts travelling through the tunnel into the abyss at night
reaching nothing but a terrifying insight
that the longer we live, the more we’ve lost.
We can hold a currency of words
but what does loss cost?
In terms of sadness?
Grief prayed into a cross?
Those left in the dark
long for the sun to come up again
to know somehow as they are bending
upon the edge of night
that it isn’t an ending
but only a beginning.
yakskinpocketnotes 