[Image from Pinterest]
It crept up on her, shadow like – the doubt,
the questioning of direction. Acid
to the mind, the soul. Bitter lemons and
sour plums of thought to chew over; spit out
in disgust at loss of self, not a pout
but a grimace at her face, eyes she hid
in lowered pose to read the lives others
led by gleeful energy (without doubt).
A cup of tea, a song to hum along
to on the radio, a glance simply
to rain beyond glass, and that cloud so wrong
would dissipate; the sun’s rays – ultra strong –
would part the gates to heaven, it seemed. She
could breathe again, might smile, or so pretend.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]