The Acceptance of Loss



It took a while to hit me,

I’ll admit.

I was so used to drifting that the

Whole idea of losing home seemed

Distant


Almost like the idea of home.


And now, refugeless, I am learning to accept.

I find myself suddenly unable to eat, sleep or breathe.

I whisper the word ‘holy’

It comes out as Rune


I clutch tightly to thin wisps

But

I’m

Still

Reeling…

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Old Hospital

The Legend Of The Old Hospital “The whispered story   One last glance at the chameleon dance   And into the dark across the park" Venus of the Hardsell - Mucous Membrane I)                     Himalayan small towns sleep early. Uneasy but early. In the long rainy season, the thick mountain mist envelops everything around; creating ghouls out of old deodars, and a long-familiar dread seeps among the townsfolk. Perhaps it is the moss-covered pavements and the all-pervasive smell of mould which induce misery, but even the most cheerful hillman will tell you- the rains dampen the fiercest of wills.  Hilltowns are often dotted with old colonial buildings made by mad Englishmen who tried to carve a bit of the motherland into the only places cold and damp enough to remind them of home. The rainy season in the Himalayas resembles London in March when the air turns grey. The buildings they left behind have largely su...
know the whole tale..