It comes, ashen, through the soul’s corridor
Pep talk and self-talk cannot keep it at bay
Not fear exactly, nor despair
But the feel of facing a door, heavy, and no air
Pep talk and self-talk will not keep it away
Though for a time I can defend
Oh the feel of facing a door, heavy, with no air
Starkness of failures, bare
Though for a time I will surely pretend
The answer lies in the hills, the offing
Starkness of failures, bare
To be robed, addressed
The answer lies in the hills, the offing
Plastered with old dream bits
Shall be robed, addressed
Joy is surely there, fond as lore
Plastered with old dream bits
Dreams not tinctured, but now
Joy is surely there, fond as lore
It is given, through the heart's deep core.
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(This poem was essentially written some days ago, but seems tragically appropriate this week, following the unexpected death of a good friend.)
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