Slow Sink
It wasn’t who I was;
I had become a stranger in my own skin.
No one was willing to help me;
I was under the shelter of gathering darkness.
It wasn’t who I was;
I could barely afford a good meal.
It felt like climbing a steep hill,
A journey through a withered meadow.
My son didn’t want to come close.
I turned to look at him and saw him turn away.
I sat alone on the porch at twilight;
Sadness weighed down the boat of my being.
I soar on the wings of dawn;
I walk into the morning light, filled with awakening hope.
A slow sink is not a shadow symphony,
If only hope could be buoyed from being submerged.
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