Inside my soul she lingers

You don’t see her dwelling there

Her golden hair

She gives me a piece of her mind

A kind of wisdom

Letting lose that tongue of hers

Telling me about the day

How horrid it was

And how I made her smile

When all else failed collapsing around her

She came to me

I helped her to stand


No longer does she appear

I sit alone

 She’s unable to listen to my muses, worries, and fumbling escapades of trials

Accompanying more tests

So-called lessons

 I keep striving to work out the knots

 To succeed in more than living in the cycle of the system

I set down my pen and stand to stretch

Fabrications of plenty mask depression

The anchor has dropped dipping into the cool clear water

I’ll write before my delusion dries up

Before hope is lost on re-runs of television that comforted me in the past

Now I must find satisfaction in myself

Or be left to be forgotten, finished, and extinct

By the hands of disbelief


Angela K. Crandall

© 7/26/15


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