Sorrow, a therapy all its own

It sweeps in on some distant mirage
an unwanted companion
wanting to cling to the end.
It takes such a toll
you just don’t know how to roll.
You run from it, you fight it
nothing seems to work.
It lingers as a stain
that refuses to budge.
Finally, in exhaustion, with no relief in sight
no energy with which to flee or fight
you stay... still... acceptance of despair.
It’s then that you stumble on a thing.
“I cannot shift this,” you say
And then you hear,
“You’re not meant to . . .”
“WHO SAID THAT?”
S I L E N C E . . .
It captures your attention.
Caught in the vision lock-step.
“Trust,” said the Inaudible Voice, “for I am with you”
even though it seemed mad to me
I considered seriously what I was imagining
and even as I stood there transfixed
I pondered the impossible . . .
Could it be that sorrow is a therapy all its own?
. . . that bearing it wouldn’t break me?

. . . that, shudder to think, bearing the sorrow would in fact heal me . . .

“Yes, this is HOW I work,” said the Inaudible Voice.

“Let the sorrow in and feel it, and I will keep my promise.”

Photo by laura adai on Unsplash