If I was death I would slay the cruel and foolish hope
which fills my brain with wicked trickery;
optimistic fiction posing as reality.
Never more would I be its slave
It would not be there to trap me on the brink,
then wait, wait a day or a week
and drop me back into the bitter, heart-rotting river of loss,
letting me hiccup and choke before sinking in tear-slicked grief;
timing it to agonising perfection,
then reaching with half-rinsed hand, grabbing me
and again lifting, lifting me that little bit, pulling me to the edge,
air drying my dripping frame with electric breeze,
showing me re-mastered images of reconstituted love ones
fully healed and smiling at their family.
Never freeing me to face the final pain
and crawl out alone, to build an honest strength;.
The tinny key to my regeneration.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 
Love it. Especially this: “If I was death I would slay the cruel and foolish hope which fills my brain with wicked trickery; optimistic fiction posing as reality.” Sometimes it just seems easier NOT to get your hopes up.
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I’m glad you understand. So many people tell me not to give up hope, but hope brings expectation, and we learn in families anonymous that we shouldn’t expect things to get better or worse, because in expectation we are trying to create. To hope for an addict’s recovery leaves you grieving until things begin to look better, and then when they slip back it hurts even more. I have grieved for seven years or so and it doesn’t look as if it is going to go away soon. I can talk about how it was two years ago, or even one, but I can’t talk about what’s happening in my life right now. I write sad and angry poems, and they don’t even skim the surface. I write funny poems and they hide the truth. Often I laugh, and I see myself, and think, oh look, she’s performing a clever trick.
To lose a loved one through death is a truly terrible thing, but at least you know where you stand.
I remember how I curled up on the floor, against the pain, when my mother died. I learned to stand again, but since then it has happened many, many times.
I want to go mad and be locked away, but I’m too strong, and anyway, I couldn’t do that to Sarah and Claire.
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I hear you, girlfriend. I will just sit here next to you. {{{Jane}}}
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Thankyou. I know I’m not alone.
Tonight an old friend managed to find me on facebook. I haven’t seen him for thirty years, and all these years I’ve wanted to apologise for something. At least that’s something I can mend. I’m glad I have an unusual name, and still live in the same area, or he’d never have found me…
xxx
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Then he has turned out to be a pleasing distraction. You need some of those.
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I think that hearing from him has connected me with the strength I had back then.
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An excellent poem.
Dark, so dark.
“heart-rotting river of loss”
Speaks volumes.
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Thank you Alan. Sometimes I wish that all I had to write about was cute bunny-wunnies and pretty ikkle daisies – though I think I may lose a few of my favourite followers…
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