Respite
There must be a place
of respite
settling down from all trauma,
self inflicted or otherwise deflected
roll with me into these hay fields dandelions
or arches of roses where
scents replace the terror in your mind.
Is it only in the after life?
I heard your voice last night
I have nothing to fear oh how wrong you are
my deceased father,
afraid of shadows after your depart
popping corks of red finesse
shaking at what is a ghost inside
I would trade my life for your chance to live,
enjoy solitude of sea,
baths of salt water hitting your face
like the memories of what shadows me
it hits my face too.
What is one to do,
I may master coloring mandalas for distraction
until the Indian folk make me their teacher,
eventually, the dreary nature of crafts
becomes a cry for help
when your sharp crayons make sharper holes
in finely crafted papers.
Is it only in the after life?
Anna Rozwadowska 2019
