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.