Sweet Blessed Poetry
Sweet Blessed Poetry
55.
There is a ripeness to our labor
As tumbled words are laid to bare.
We strain against the sands of time
To preen the thoughts found there.
If our beatific Muse be predisposed
To divulge that which ought to be.
We get to peek behind the curtain...
Oh sweet blessed poetry.
The End
Love's Address
56.
I've put my house in order.
I've made peace with those above.
I've set aside my peculiarities.
I'm ready now for love.
But my efforts are contentious
And this haunts my every prayer
As love holds no current address
For which I am aware.
The End
Loss
57.
How does someone over-come
The loss of a child? An affliction
Of such magnitude... all others
Pale in comparison. A huge chasm
Opening the soul to such misery
And sorrow... both fair and foul
Succumb to tears. The comfort
Of others becomes trivial and
Unimportant. Love evaporates.
The putrid air reeks of discontent.
You cannot breath. You are alone.
You are as close to Death as a
Living person can be. You are
The walking dead. You cannot
Imagine how life can be so obtuse.
Someone tells you, 'They're in a
Better place.' Your fists clench In
Rage. They wisely walk away. You
Cannot eat. You cannot sleep. Your
Mind races to make sense of it all.
You drift back down the stairs.
There are brownies... your child's
Favorite, cruelly baked by a well-
Meaning neighbor. There is a note...
'Tomorrow will be better.' There is no
Tomorrow. There is only an endless
Parade of what you feel today.
The End
Copyright © David Mchattie | Year Posted 2022
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