Layers of Pain

You wish it were so simple,
that a cleverly constructed phrase could contain it,
mark it, tell it’s truth.

But it is not. There are layers to it,
a history of hurt. of loss
of stories intertwined,

so complex that few are willing to listen,
unwilling to let you unravel the tangle
of threads and strings and ropes,

Far easier to dismiss and destroy
and add new layers to the tangled collage
of hurt and confusion.

Too often you, too, are frustrated,
the time, the work, the tedious work
of extricating yourself from the thorned  cords,

the binding things that tear at your soul
and tear at your flesh
and leave you bleeding.

And yet, you still pick at each string,
each layer of pain, every loss and torture
disguised as love,

like a child, you pull at them,
wonder at their colors and texture
and how the strands, each so thin

bound you helpless and left you for dead.

Ah, but you are not. Never that.
In the dark hours of the night, you pick at the tangle,
leaving each layer on the floor.

In the early morning, you pick at the tangle,
and slowly, you are freed.
Your chest heaves. Your heart pumps

as the last thin thread falls to the ground and you are free,
Unsure whether it is time to dance or tremble,
you step into the sunlight, finding new layers, these

of joy.

About this poem

The painting is called “Layers of Pain.”, painted some time ago and just bought by someone for their home.  And for some reason, that phrase hit me tonight, and a poem popped out.

Tom