Until Next Year

CATEGORY

just different

I harbor no resentment,

only the discontentment

of a child whose parents

have been gone for a while.

So I get inside my head,

find the feelings I have fled

and climb inside them,

breathe my grief in them

attempting to revive them

like fading memories

of the demented.

The names and faces

long ago imprinted

are those of the emotions

I abandoned

like sick slaves on open oceans –

things I rarely share

‘cause few can understand them.

But they resurface

two successive months each year.

The other ten, they are deflected;

numbness shields me from those spears.

Now, is this healthy for me?

I don’t know and I don’t care,

but it offers some relief

until next year.

- HymnAgen