Catharsis

My pen doesn't dip in vials of comfort

It only speaks of war and chaos

Black and thick was made the ink

To interrupt the hazy white

To return to my innocence pink

~

Paper is the skin

Soul out of ink

Black on virgin white

Pure delight

Mallow and cream

~

Emotions untangled

into orderly bow

Charmingly the stitches

they now bestow

Enclosing potions

Antidote to poisons

~

Once laid and formed the words

Old scar becomes the dried ink

Conjured and banished the demons within

Cleansed and blessed rests the soul

Dove pure and freed birds

~

Weapons down

My pen bled enough

I sigh the smoke

Warm breath under scarf

Eyes closed under soft fleece

Solace. Serenity. Peace

~

Our book got burnt

From ash my rebirth

Dusted on the shelf

In my old binding

I find my true self

Torn and half as it is

Perfectly it fits

Memoir in my heart's bookcase

Perfectly as I used to fit

in your warm embrace

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⚜ Comfort in writing as my way to return to my old self, as I knew me before loss and grief.

⚜ Pictures are selected and combined in a collage to capture the aesthetic imagery and symbolism of the poem.

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