At times my center is pain: a tiny pebble dropped carelessly in a pool
made from on going rain,
Sinking to the grey bottom, concentric circles of the dead and gone float above my head, none wave hello or goodbye.
Suddenly desperate for air, I sit up in the pool made of tears, flaying in anger and fear, I wrap shaking limbs around the hardness of alone, then wonder if Job wants a new friend,
Living alone stokes memories of happy times once shared and of plans that now will never be,
Deserted by lovers and friends I mourn their loss
And grief comes home with me.
THH
6/5/24
Thoughts Have Hands 