Sing No Canticle For Me
I hardly noticed the first tiny crack,
through the deluge of tears I cried.
Perhaps too numb to feel the sting of pain
or the fissure exposing my wounded heart,
but in sorrow, I chose to ignore it
in the futile hope that it would heal itself.
Adversity seldom vanishes of its own accord.
The cause of my anxiety increased tenfold
as larger pieces of me fractured and snapped.
My fragility was as bare as my soul,
both unprotected and vulnerable.
Wounds no bandage could cover or conceal.
My exterior had become a brittle shell,
falling around me in sharp edged shards.
The obvious camouflaged the obscure.
I had to be brave if I was going to heal.
I wanted no Humpty Dumpty Canticle
sung by pitying voices on my behalf.
The wall I once climbed no longer held me up
but I had learned to restrain my weakness
and the need to lean upon it as a crutch.
I motioned for the King's men to mount
and continue along on their journey.
If I was to be rescued, I swore to do it myself.
Carefully, I gathered each shattered fragment,
every crushed dream that had been broken.
I nurtured my wounds until my lamenting heart
stopped bleeding as we hobbled our way home
to be made whole once more.
January 6, 2023
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 24
Sponsored by Mark Toney
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