Poem: Without Time


Without Time

This is what you do.
You mourn.
And mourn more.
For as long as you need to be lost in it.
There is no timetable to mourning.

You do not.
Can not.
Will not
lose the loss.
That is not how it works.

You live it
and in time,
when you are ready,
and not one minute earlier,
you find room for something else.

Something small.
But something nonetheless.
And you let it in.
And then something else.
and yet another.

You decide.

You learn. That’s the thing in it all.
You learn that it never fades, the mourning.
It will always be there, just behind the eyes.

But you learn there is more to you.
Room for more.
That hearts are far larger than the cavity that holds them.
Hearts are where eternity lives.
They are infinite.
But only
when we are ready;
for mourning has no time.

About this poem

This was one of those poems where I stumbled on an old photograph, and wrote the poem to it.

The picture was taken at a Rennaisance Faire in Sterling New York. I love taking portraits, but not the formal kind. The caught unaware in the moment kind, when the soul leaks out.



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