Halfway to crazy

like a sponge it lies behind my eyes
soaking up each fact and feeling
but when I try to read it all back
the emotions leave me reeling
I question the thoughts in my brain
and ask if I’m really bleeding
or if I am playing a brackish game
is my image of pain so appealing?

©Jane Paterson Basil

Dying to let go

the child still lives in her mind,
the child that she was, who got left behind.
the idealised scene displays multiple shades of green,
with buttercup highlights: pale blue sky, not a dead leaf in sight –
and she in primrose dress, though she remembers she always wore jeans,
cartwheeling across the field, racing to the stream, leaping,
living life, not knowing it wasn’t for keeping.

she breathes the cycle of the days
from wracking pain to morphine haze
and all the moments in between
inside her brain, by all unseen.

she regrets all her wasted years
her fears, the cowardice, the helpless tears
when she learned that adult decisions could be too difficult
to do more than contemplate, that she was incapable of being brave,
and shame hits her in waves, guilt for the children she didn’t save
failing to walk with them, though the door and far away.
it haunts her, and she will take it to the grave.

she breathes the cycle of the days
from wracking pain to morphine haze
and all the moments in between
inside her brain, by all unseen.

from wake of day to wake of day
to wake of day again, she sleeps, she wakes,
and in those breaks between the pain, she aches
to change the past, to break the chain, to take back time
to childhood days, to be the way she should have been,
could have been, if they had been, if she had been –
then morphine dreams replace the ache,
and heaven seems to take their place
she sinks into their wam embrace,
she sleeps, she wakes,
she thinks again
she feels the pain
then sleeps
again

she breathes the cycle of the days
from wracking pain to morphine haze
and all the moments in between
inside her brain, by all unseen.

and when her children shed a tear she smiles her smile from ear to ear,
and says don’t fret, I’ll soon be gone and you’ll be better on your own,
while to her siblings all she’ll say is I’ll be off, I’m on my way.
I’d follow you but you’re too slow, I couldn’t wait for you to go.
I’m off to find a sunny place where I may never lose a race.

she breathes the cycle of the days
from wracking pain to morphine haze
and all the moments in between
inside her brain, by all unseen.

©Jane Paterson Basil