I guess it cannot be helped. Despite my best efforts, there are still dark hours and even dark days, when the weight of challenges simply overwhelms me, and despair finds a crack in the walls of my redoubt, flowing in and forcing hope to tread its black waters. Change always seems to bring at least one black bag among the luggage. Most of the time, I can simply put the black bag aside until I am ready to dispose of its contents. Occasionally, however, the contents spill across an hour or a day and darken everything for awhile.
I do not welcome these times, both for the pain they bring and the effort expended to illuminate the dark and drive the shadows from my life. Like discovering a wasp on the ceiling, I cannot simply ignore the little beastie because it may decide to hurt me, and the longer I leave it alone, the more likely it is to attack. I simply have to step aside and deal with it.
Wasp on the Ceiling
My thoughts pour black, as bitter as coffee,
To fill my derelict, bottomless cup.
Passions gone cold flow as slow as toffee,
When old, dissipated, and all used up.
My face, gone gray as late autumn morning,
Startles my mirror, and shatters my eyes;
Those shadowed orbs, which offer no warning
Or guidance to where inner darkness lies.
An empty vessel at an empty quay,
Silently, swiftly, after midnight moored,
When facing an equally empty day,
Rides high at anchor, it's cargo outpoured.
I find this terrible, hopeless feeling,
As welcome as a wasp on the ceiling...