Some Days Are Vulnerable

This blog entry is dark and a little bit creepy. Proceed with caution.

When I was in my twenties, I was sick. I do not think I understood at the time how much illness colored my world. I would not relive my twenties if you paid me.

During a rather dark stretch, I wrote a poem. I found it recently, handwritten and buried in some old cards and letters. It is bleak but not without hope. I will always be grateful that hope wins.

I never wrote a serious poem again. But I did find a Ghostbuster. My Ghostbuster's name was Mary, a gifted social worker.

There's a ghost in my room and I am afraid

Afraid of the Ghost of the Unknown

Now surrounding me like a shroud

I can sense his gnarled fingers beckoning me forth.

But I cannot move

There are other ghosts lurking in the darkness

Holding me captive with their beguiling familiarity.

The Ghost of What Was

Holding tight, knowing pain

Protecting my heart with an icy grip.

The Ghost of What Is

Billowing fog, hushing dreams

Clouds of caution muting risk.

Take my hand and walk with me

If one of us stumbles, we both may fall

And lose each other in the darkness.

But together we can light a candle 

And face our Ghosts in the flickering light.