Coming to Terms
What of the tears, the cold, the gloom,
Amongst the ears of a silent room.
I sat alone, I wrote, I pondered,
How my life had so far wandered.
So off track, errant, upended--
No fruit in the garden that I’ve tended.
Depressed, a mess, seldom fed--
The crown of thorns is on my head.
Beneath the tears, a calm, a bliss.
I am not afraid of the abyss.
Copyright © Kurdt Cohen | Year Posted 2014