[Sometimes I draw, sometimes I write]
I am neither lost nor found, looking, or hiding.
I am here, neither trapped in my own breath, or free from my own sorrow.
I am here, once forgotten, and asked to stay put. I could not.
Deficit of patience, abundance of prose.
I cannot keep silent, but I will not yell.
There was enough screaming…the loudest that echoed in a wind of silence.
All that I had to give, gone. Reassurance rests in faith, not in resistance.
My calm looks like chaos, and my chaos like calm.
I cried over my losses, and I wept over my gains.
I was tormented by my wins, because they always seemed like a restart.
Restart, resist, recompense.
You don’t get some things back.
At the onset at the best of things, new things, you pause.
New things that are good to you and good for you…you take a moment to recall that which was snatched from you.
You remember the moments you were disregarded and shoveled to the corner like old snow, 4 days after the storm.
No longer soft, but it won’t melt. Disregarded, shoveled, put on a shelf, because you look pretty.
Only used for special occasions; tended to in preparation for the finest dinners.
Attention to detail, small cracks.
You are not a new thing.
But you are the best of things. Not just for the fine dinners; but for daily bread.
Morning mysteries and night time nourishment.
Not old snow, permanent sunshine.
Sometimes a cold breeze that irritates you when anticipating summer’s winds.
But still a sunshine.
On your worst day, you are the best of things.
Restart, repeat, recompense.