The Depth of a Sorrowful Joy

© 2010 Rob Krabbe

Branches hang dripping, low on a mist-covered pathway.
A walk I have put off till the calendars fell from the rotting shelf.
Deep in the fall forest's cool morning air shackles clank to the ground.
My melancholy and I are life-long friends, whispering - giddy like lovers.
Trying to remember how many I have murdered in my sleep.

"You say, killing myself could repair the damages?"
Irony sitting on my shoulder likes to hear his own rusty voice.
Well, I would have jumped a long time ago into the abyss.
Years of the couch, lithium blood canals, till I found only apathy and Frankenstein's shoes.
Thankfully a peaceful wilderness and nature protects me now
and gives me the margin I need to soak up grace and forgive.

Forgive myself? maybe, but I don't deserve it; still, that's how grace works.
It's a two-way blazing heat day, a clogged blast furnace and crunchy dry grass.
Bake till dead, scraped up ashes fill the brass urn to overflowing.
My neck, today offered to the King, how much easier would that be?
But to face the old man, sing the young boy and put in the work.
Damn it, I wish I could remember where all the burned bridges lay.

I pick up the steel, the glimmering, wonderful flashing blade.
Razor sharp, it faithfully mirrors my soul, my face, my eyes.
Romancing the sexy lover she offers pleasure for pain.
Boy, yes, I like how I look in the reflection of a big beautiful knife.
I want to make love to it, slide it deep into my heart,
I could cut gills and swim away into the dark cold sea; free.
My faithful, faithful friend, always there for me - waiting.

Across clear creek water, shocked back by the sound of flowing life.
The smell of the organic process, and the non-stop healing.
A purpose for everything under heaven? Sometimes I sing that line.
All members of the body, every part, every task, unflinching,
and no judgement or personal agenda, only an offering of a deeper joy.
I stand back and look at my day, a masterpiece canvass, shades
of darkness, glorious textured globs of melting paint fall from my wounds
and create a new and special way to look up and wonder.

There is no going back to picking up all the trash, but one can try
repairing all the bridges, healing all the damage, admitting the lies.
Some of the corpses have long rotted into the soil continuing the cycle,
nurturing new life without my "damned" help.
No going home again? Wisdom or frustration of the court jester?
The infection will only fester, but suddenly I realised, my eyes open wide:

Time is my true lover. I sit and "befriend" old enemies; we all chuckle.
The flavor of the month, "we was just stupid kids back then," grains of sand.
"Don't give it a thought. You ain't been thinking of that all these years have you?"
The grace of a forgetful mind is not as satisfying but works wonders in the soul.
I was a real jerk but now I'm just one you "ain't heard from in thirty years."
Well, I fought back the tears and my blackened heart found an odd acceptance,
rubbing the tarnish into wisdom, comfortable shoes and a gentle old but joy-filled fool.