Only Moving Time Heals

 
scene-setting reactive depression

 

She’s gone.
His first thought on waking,
feeling melancholic,
wretched,
jaw, misaligned on palm of hand,
…… face, half-encased in
warm, damp pillow,
gradually sensing his own
heaviness.
 
Focusing one hazy eye
sideways, on vertical axis,
beyond the wide bed,
rose thorns scratch crosses on
rain-stained windows, where sun,
beaming through particles,
projects glass petals that
dapple and fade at the wall.
Curtains, flapping in unison,
brush a dying bluebottle,
setting it buzzing;
a cacophony in incessantly hissing
wind and traffic, and
shrill chirping sparrows.
 
Scrambled sounds of vital life
compound his depression.
“Time, creating distance, fading memories,
only way forwards,”friends said.
But, strands, severed from hope,
still pulsing love, refuse to atrophy,
emotions bleed freely,
profusely.
Though four years have elapsed,
each Sunday morning,
has the feel of yesterday.
 
 
 
 
 
Goth:June:2004
 
 

© Gothicman 2019
Views: 691
critique and comments welcome.

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Alfie_Shoyger
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Surely you can think of a better verb than “touch” a dying bluebottle?

Sweetwater
Member

The normality of everyday life ripping the emotions even more, each day.
I felt every word. Sue.

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