she stood under the benign force of a raging storm;

Its warm mist seeps into her broken soul,

and the swift rains drown out her silent cries.



And the storm has passed;

She stares with empty eyes of apprehension into the fading clouds –

unsure when they might return.



calls her from a distance.

A tree has grown over her,

and its tranquil shade lulls her to sleep.

Sometimes I wonder: why poetry? Why obscure what we mean with veils of cryptic words? I think last night I understood a little. I might have come across my own Bell Jar. Reality is far too painful to recount in vivid clarity, and far too beautiful for prose to do it justice. Poetry turns the ugly into the bearable, and the amazing into something comprehendible. My own attempts at poetry are like little boxes which hold the raw emotions my soul is too broken to keep. Perhaps I’m also hoping that if I send my feelings down roads of words, I might find something comforting along the way.

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