The Gift of Despair

 One day the gods, so mild and fair,    

gave me gently, the gift of despair.     

Gave me, silent, fearsome retreat,       

brow bent dark, shivers complete.

Without so much as saying please,

they laid these sorrows at my feet.

For months on end the world would grey,    

my eyes could never cry enough.       

The barrens sprang intact inside my head.

I grimaced like a fox, shambled like a bear.

My face repulsed me with convict’s dread,

my only heart inside was as cold as it was dead.

 

 

The dark and light divide inside,         

a beam of falling, failing day.    

I wish I was that free again,

 descending in the slowest way.

I wish the snow would slowly fall,      

swaddle all the earth in white,    

erase the dark cracks of branches,

 preempt the demise of rare light.         

Night cancels option of landscape,

 a darker terrain I long to recover.        

I long to return to the arms of despair,

to be cradled by loss as a lover.

 

 

Bestow on me that void again.  

Return my nothingness to me.  

Without my pain I cannot feel.

Without my tears I cannot see.

Sadness is where I first saw true,        

I saw the bare cold world clean,

all unadorned of hope, and pure,        

without the stain of love, pristine.

Despair is a gift, just like death,

once given, it’s given for good.

I did not ask to be blasted,       

I would not forsake the blackness if I could.

 

 

A kiss, a caress from the darkness,

despair is a  prayer from below.

Contentment is the normal state,

mere happiness is status quo.

Joy is but light on the surface,  

of a deep and shadowed undertow.    

That is where my true heart lives,        

and rolls like round black stones below.

Connection remains hypothetical,       

something imagined, or supposed.     

My heart’s a stallion on a ridge,

a pale king, deposed.

 

 

Exiled to a land called loss,      

across a bright and glassy sea,  

past all the days we never had,

the prairie between you and me.

The sky that somehow still remains,   

between your fate and mine,     

lonely oceans roll slowly over

the days we can no longer find.

You have to have been born by now,

and be upon this spinning globe.

I clutch my sorrow to my chest,         

wear my aloneness like a shining robe.

 

 

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~ by tjeffcarey on February 3, 2012.

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