Though it is bright
Storm clouds swirl
And gather in my soul.
I cannot feel the sun on my skin.
No longer excited by spring
Or the scent of new cut grass.
Summer is but a memory of times past
As empty of hope as the Autumn wind.
Winter brings me no promise
My love hath died through neglect
And misuse. Commanded and controlled,
I slowly die inside.
That imposter in my husband’s skin
Takes his place by my side
Insidious, and even sly
He hides from all but my eyes.
I sit, with empty hope,
And wait for life to pass me by,
That he will, one day, return to me
And slay the monster in his place.
So in burial and sweet memorial
Of hate and of rage
Deep below, and concealed by the pretence of mirth
I dwell in this glittering, gilded cage.
I tell myself ‘be grateful
For who else in this heartless world
Could love this damaged fool
Who can only loathe themselves?’
And over feeling chose life on a shelf?
Empty, cold, made chattel;
I am just that; a broken rattle
Of a child too afraid to let go.
For me, life and time
Pass all too slow.
In empty hope I do reside and hope
That tomorrow brings a turning tide.