When she leans face down, I smell darkness coming,
Everything gets disrupted here.

Does everything get disrupted here?
Light narrows, dreams wither, prayers become lost inside brown paper bags.

Prayers become lost inside brown paper bags when light narrows,
When the imbalance of years that tremble before us – are hers,

And when the imbalance of years that tremble before us – are hers,
rivered tears are silenced as she reopens my wounds,

When she reopens my wounds that cannot be healed, her silence deepens in me.
Darkness enters, I am not in control – I cannot touch what is gone,

She keeps dragging me back into her darkness; I cannot touch what is gone.
I open my hands up to the sky where she has burned the edges off,

I open my hands up to the sky, untangle the very root of her existence
Release her to light, call her by name – Depression, and walk into the light.

By Diane Wilburn Parks, EC Poetry & Prose Member,

About the Author

Feature Photo by Adrien Olichon

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Performance Artist at Hire.

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