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Poem

For forty long years, I’ve been tethered here,
Gazing at shadows, embracing my fear.
The echoes of love play tricks on my mind,
Strings of affection, but what do they bind?

Yes, I have children — I love them with grace,
Their laughter, their presence, a warm, sacred space.
Family and friends who profess they care,
But their words sometimes drift like smoke in the air.

Deep down, a whisper gnaws at my soul,
A lurking suspicion I cannot control.
It says they’re a spider, weaving a thread,
A tangled web of falsehoods instead.

They tell me they love me; yes, that I’ve heard,
But love without action is just an empty word.
If death took my hand and carried me high,
How many would mourn, and how many would lie?

Would they weep true tears, or wear grief as a mask?
Who would shatter and who would just ask,
“How does this serve me, how must I appear?”
Would their cries be hollow, or raw, sincere?

I know in my heart, though doubt plagues my view,
That some love me truly, through and through.
But this darkness within, it tempers my bloom,
Chains my spirit to a prison of gloom.

Oh, I wish I could silence this voice inside,
This shadow that whispers, this ache I can’t hide.
But for now, I sit with the weight of the years,
A solitary traveler, drowning in tears.

Yet perhaps in this trial, I’ll find a key,
To love myself first — to one day be free.
Not trusting mere words, but actions that shine,
To untangle the web and reclaim what is mine.

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