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