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It was finally over
Two strangers unspoken for days,
Or years, they didn’t know,
Finally spoke, voices hushed not raised.
A tear caught and not shed
The measured voices left nothing unsaid –
Caught in my mind; mixed and –
What? – fiery, mulled over
Caught inside dunes of sand.
I hid in the room
Trying to close my ears
Stared at the moon
And continued catching the tears.

Sat locked in mental turmoil
Confused at every junction,
Unsure of who to talk to.
Same time the mind can’t function
Buried six feet below bare soil,
Thoughts face thick swamps to walk through.

Anguish grips, squeezes the heart,
Suffocating, slight, nerve, fear;
Loneliness lies somewhere there.
The next move remains unclear,
Uncertain of where to start.
Mistaken outcome, unfair.

A talking, writing thought cure
To let it out this first time.
Maybe later conclusion?
But now to face the worst climb
Up towards a wrought future,
Out of inner illusion –

The tears caught, the moon shone.

So, I hid a poem under a tree
For three weeks so though you could all see
It you could not see me.
The writing was all etched and scratched
Out; wiry black pen that was cross-hatched,
Interlocked and attached.
I often sat and mused that no one
Knew my heart and soul was there yet gone.
A sly deceptive con
That could have gone on and on and on.

So the tree stood tall and the poem grew,
And I could now breathe in their faint hue
While watching what ensued.
People sat and stared but no one cared,
They weren’t to know of what I had shared,
So the toil was thus spared.
I hid the tears that were caught not shed,
Held the key which to my problems led;
To all they remained dead –

But from my eyes the tears still bled.
And to the moon my tears were wed.

© Sam Cunningham, April 2006