Sheila Stahl

 

Wounded

 

Wounded are we

at an early age

from left-over love

and traces of time

dealt out of lips

still dripping with wine.

 

With every word

and every deed

we latch our hearts

and souls and plead

to hear for once

we are enough,

we are okay,

and still ...

silence.

 

A void that burns

and boils

and brews

until it bubbles

and bursts with bile

and bitters we bore

and bear still.

 

With vigor we strive

to cleanse our hearts

from every stain

of sickness

and sour

that soaks our soul

and saddens our spirit.

 

For only freedom

brings rest

to tired eyes

and tired aches

that no longer profit

from heavy loads of rubbish.

 

Relief we find

or it finds us

in ways quite foreign

to our finite bodies

and yet our ageless souls

cry out for more

inviting us to relish

in our respite.

 

And like the onion,

we peel

and are peeled

until the core

no longer lures our tears ...

and finally peace.

 

Our days

and mainly our nights

are free from demons

and dreaded ghouls

who once plagued our sleep

and robbed our rest.

 

Now, it's spring.

It's dawn.

It's birth and rebirth.

 

Like the phoenix we rise

with greater strength

and dignity

and love

for what we endured,

for what we learned,

and for what we have become.

 

For now we are wise.

We are rich.

We are full of healing and light.

 

We are nurtured like a brook

that journeys with life

down a mossy path of pebbles,

continually finding breath

in kindred crossing waters ...

if only for a stone's throw.

 

 

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