Posted in a remembrance, Breathing under water

The Valley of Desolation

“We need time to move through the pain of loss. We need to step into it, really to get to know it, in order to learn”
― Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

parched land

Every year I watch families come together
for the festive season,
and each time it becomes more excruciating
than the last.
Maybe a series of bad choices
has brought me to this valley
of desolation,
a place where scarecrows
come to
feast on my bones!

I step into the black tar
of bitterness
and ask why?
Why should I be dealt such a bad hand as this?
Like a wave consuming me
I’m taken into the depths,
swallowed
by the stench of my own pity.

Peering up through a distorted lens,
through the murky layers
of water,
in sightless trance,
I’m mesmerised.

I can’t see the sun,
or the crescent moon.
I’m concealed in the depths
and darkness has trapped me,
beneath the bright light
of awareness.

I long to be comforted,
but how,
when I am so lost,
so far from home,
and ruin stands outside my door!

In this unwelcome habitat,
I want to hide from all truth,
and just taste the
sweet nectar of heaven.

If I come to the surface too suddenly,
and see reality for what it is,
I may just evaporate
into a million particles
and disappear
into a timeless void.

I may become suffocated by this dreadful wound,
and it may bleed out into oceans of despair.

So for now
I will let docile waters
of unknowing comfort me,
and lull me into sweet oblivion.
I will let fragrant moments,
and lilies of the valley
be my sun
and my moon.
I won’t look too hard into
the place
where pain debilitates me,
until I’m ready.

Instead, I will let waters of silence wash over me,
with the promise of eternity
in my eyes,
and tender zephyrs of abiding love
will touch my weakened form.

I do not belong to a world
where there is no pain,
so what hope is there for me?
Should I starve myself of life
and become a nonentity,
a vagabond,
on waterless wastelands?

This wound will heal,
I know,
but I must protect myself from harm,
until the pain is not longer agonizing to the touch,
until fields of joy entice me back.

I must immerse myself
in the present moment.
and face this grief with tenderness,
so that I can gently rise
into acceptance
and understanding!

I must rest in the knowledge
that I can belong again
to this race called human!

©AllysoAlly2017

Author:

I am an unknown introvert who desires to touch the world with a little bit of magic...

4 thoughts on “The Valley of Desolation

  1. Ally, I believe that one day you will be ready and have the courage to face the pain and see it in a different light. Take all the time you need to grief and then begin the healing. Love and hugs to you 💕

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I wrote this about another pain but it bumps into other pains that we experience … I am so sorry about the loss of Steve. For me this piece points to a spiritual pain, a dreadful sense of loss both physical and emotional

    Raw-red bone of memory

    ON MAY 29, 2014 BY PLACESTHATSING

    He called out in a distress forged in the tangle-metal of an accident. Only the songbird-needle of morphine could ever so briefly-fleetingly extinguish the misery of the wide-open unhealed wound, gaping with flesh and blood.

    I lay in the next bed to him in the hospital, having been admitted in the morning, doubled over with my own pale version of pain. An emergency had whipped out a fetid appendix (yes, I know, I am being dramatic) and my only experience then was of post-anaesthesia dullness and the odd stomach muscle smarting slightly in a sudden movement.

    Summoned, the nurse was unable to ease his pain. He half-shouted out that he didn’t care about being addicted to that songbird in a vial. He simply needed the sweet relief, even if it only glanced him, took the edge off.

    Until today, I had completely forgotten about those midnight hours lying in a hospital bed listening to a man who sobbed in his pain, and who cursed and swore at the world. I had been remembering my own pain, gliding in on a songbird of hope, blowing away the awful what-have-beens that sometimes fester in the raw-red bone of memory when, startled, I thought of that hospital ward thirty four years ago.

    Liked by 1 person

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