Dark Paths

The green is magical, unreal,
the stuff of fairies and nightmares,
slick green moss, damp
in this place deep in the swamps,
stumbled on, clearly rarely visited,
like the far corners of your mind,
the closets, dark and secretive,
at times, even to you,
those places you avoid
for fear of monsters
or sadness carefully avoided,
packed into boxes and put away,
but never it seems,
quite far enough,
for the dark beasts of your heart
linger, always linger,
ready to pounce, never subdued
until the day
you learn to dance with them,
and render them helpless
by seeing their cruel beauty
as your own.

About this poem

That stuff we stuff. The emotions we deny, or push back, initially for emotional survival, but then, because it’s not convenient, or possibly painful. It’s still back there. We can keep it in the dark, where it festers like a cancer waiting to slowly chew away at our happiness.

Or we can spend time with it. Feel the pain. The reality of the sadness. And subdue it by the power of acceptance.

The picture was taken in Cornwall, England. It was a place my son and I stumbled on, in the midst of a large resort we were staying at Not on the maps, it nonetheless was the most beautiful, mysterious spot on the whole resort.

Tom