Left once again
in the detritus of dysphoria,
ripped, deflated,
rendered helpless by its flat words

(give up, you can’t do it
and you don’t want to anyway
(take that palliative, don’t complain)
you don’t have whatever it may take
and don’t deserve to either)

You are not alone,
and though you feel
no one could approach you,
look again

As you let the stillness sweep you
as the ebbing wave subsides,
you will sense, inside, a tiny seed,
its threadlike roots extending,
pulling you together
till the sprout can lift its head

It will tell you
nothing overcomes you —
you will blossom, and your voice will soar,
you’re made of life —
that old voice isn’t —
it falls to dust, but you,
you still shine clear.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 7, 2020