The warm, lonely sadness that coats my aching mind after a week of madness I swim in pink grief.
The milk of magnesia soothing, sticky and moist Mom cradles the sick child in a syrup warm and mild.
The security of knowing that symptoms beyond my control have made it clear to all that I’m excused from life.
I can sit in my still room playing with blocks a lonely, warm child creating worlds without disease as I please.
The solitude echoes in the barren clutter of thoughts and fantasy these things just come to me and I to them.
But they stay away from me I do not share their noisy, boring world of games and talk. I like my incubation station where a vacation is the chance to bring a dream to life.
Now, as I reflect on those ancient times I feel the same warm, sad comfort sitting alone in my neater room with toys as words in a living phosphorescent fantasy
:
:
The continuity breaks the growing tree accommodating the chain link fence which passes through the gnarling mass.
Up, out, but always within the tree grows so organically and the harsh bite of cold steel melts into the bark disappearing within reappearing again unscathed.
But the cold winter wind blowing in these faltering days sends a shiver straight through the fence to my weak, spindly spine
I hear the world through this chilly ear I grow older year to year but my fence and I are forever merged and the cold will always bring me pain.
When my bark succumbs to the bite I scurry down the rustling branches and disappear into the warm, soft earth where mom put me at birth.
Looking up at the swaying, stiff edifice I cannot imagine the strain and strength I cannot endure that horrible chained fence.
I need the lonely, solitary place where the rosy, melancholy juice gives my tender, sensitive soul a much needed truce.
Photo 1:
Tree like the one that inspired the poem (from reddit)