A Bowl of Sadness
A Bowl of Sadness
When I awoke he was gone, well,
not really gone but disappearing,
slowly, as the misty fog on the surface
of a mirror lake. His memory lingers
and sometimes returns, as does the
mist, but never stays. I missed him
less and less as time and loneliness
conspired to invent stories that could
be conjured up and smile about.
They failed and left me only the truth.
The truth, what truth is there in a
darkened room, a faded, fearful moment,
a never ending scar. What truth,
save the lie of truth denied, obscured,
hidden lest the truth destroy the true.
I grew to hate him, to despise his weakness,
his frailty, his fear, vowing never to be like
him. I built a calloused frame about myself,
banishing him to pained seclusion,
vowing never to depend on or befriend
any such as he. His wailing would awaken me
at times, rekindling the fear of darkened room,
and a moment ever fresh. At times I would
not shun him, would allow him rest upon
warm bed, grant him freedom from his
fear and avert my eyes from living’s
scar. Sometimes we sit together
and share a bowl of sadness.
John G. Lawless
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