LET IT GO
It isn’t only the immediate pain,
It is the acquired pain
That troubles and torments the pockets of the mind
With its terrible, unending energy,
Of memories that hurt and burn, scald and bite,
Feeding on our disasters,
Growing fat and greedy on our cataclysmic tragedies.
At least, this is what we think
As we survey the wreckage behind us
And the very uncertain structure that lies ahead,
Of a life that has somehow accommodated
A train crash of gargantuan proportions,
Or, maybe, to others, a bump of Lilliputian dimensions
Blown up like a balloon.
Until that fretful thinker suddenly says,
‘Ah, sod it,’ and finally lets the whole of it float away,
To leave behind a nice, clean life sheet to scribble on.
Oh, what joy to start again.
To forgive as many times as we need to.
© 2019 Gwen Grant