Inside me is a shadow
that waits for days like these:
when small things blossom into
catastrophes, its seems
to swallow up the sunshine,
and linger, like a fog
there on the steps beside me
as my feet slowly move
into this house, where love lives
and life is sweet and good.
It follows me in silence
and fills my mind with fears:
that I am not worth loving
and will just disappear.
And then, it bites in anger
at my protesting self,
sapping my strength and motive,
so I can barely think.
A dark, foreboding takes me
from this fair world of light,
and in its grasp I flounder.
No hand hold to be found
nor peaceful thought of beauty
there in that place of woe.
I lay no blame on others
for this, my wretched state —
it comes upon me, sometimes
and will not dissipate
until its passion passes,
and leaves me, sore and tired.
There is no rhyme or reason,
save I am uninspired.
And is this lack of sunshine
the fault of those I love?
No, it is just my shadow,
half of what I’m made of.
28 AUG 2003
