(Coming undone isn’t all bad.)
Trenches cradle fighters and bone-tired weary ones, dead ones and futility.
The undoing of all things stable and known is a kind of terror, and a kind of liberty.
Life wears you to a nub,
leaves all the constructs in rubble around you.
Smoking ruins pollute the nostrils and smudge your skin and the smouldering sky black,
while you stand in the midst in ragged clothes and ragged heart.
Yet …
There’s this wild release.
This raw knowing that it wasn’t about what you thought.
Tears streak and wails rise.
But you understand now that you can sit in it, the residue, and feel,
live the unfettered truth.
Maybe this is where Love lives,
in the dark and desolate places,
in the comfortless and stripped barren
maw of grief.
Maybe in that complete helplessness
a strength comes;
An unexpected visitor
lifting you under weary arms and limp legs and
doing what you can’t.
Only because all else has been stripped away,
can you now be carried.
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