Here is a poem I wrote today. I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while now, and I finally gathered enough little images and phrases I could use to construct a full poem.
The idea was to write something gentler, with a slower rhythm. Something connected to the pits of depression, but still with a touch of hope in there.
I have thoughts, sometimes, unhappy;
they steal in, on my head, uninvited,
and stay there, for a while,
so heavy, so – unforgiving.
But there is no gentle knocking,
not heard, no, on my door.
The trace it leaves are footsteps
recorded on virgin snow;
and ghostly, smudged, faces
behind the black window.
There is an emptiness, in my head, with an echo;
plays a melody, not known to the dead.
Nor the living, it turns out, can hear it.
I’m stuck here, in between.
For a moment, I’m lost, I feel lonely,
I’m trapped in a world with no soul.
The walls are bare, there is no sun,
no warmth, no love; a cold black hole.
And when I feel like nothing
has a hold on me, anymore,
a firm hand picks up my pieces;
resuscitates a dying corpse.
And a tender voice of the Mother
tells me to carry on, once more.
Then I see, the lightest of all the feathers,
of a bird that flies up there,
falling down, on me, as a present,
from somewhere high, or higher, or highest.
And the sways and the swirls,
and the dance and the turns –
they remind me that life is worth living.
The idea of a mother I’ve presented here has a hint of religion here (think Mother Earth), but since I don’t want to offend anyone, I will not speak more about it. I just thought I would separate it from the familiar kind of mother, to make the poem clearer in this way.