I sit here by this loom — Hand making, hand weaving fineries For our sort beneath the moon. It is quiet here, absent are those memories Which once took up space within my cranium, The mind of mine where thoughts permeated of you and I, Once alive, now we have died.
Those recollections, Memories, Introspections, Interjections? No, not anymore. I don’t allow them to rise forth, Grinning ghosts and ghouls once dragging Like a wedding veil or dress trailing upon The rocky floor.
No, our memories shan’t live on, No, no, they will never rise, Into the air like helium would, No air balloons for me to view, No future tears to cry. (c) 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved. Photo by ImAArtist on Pixabay
The loneliness is incredible, with my heart an empty vessel, who to confide in? who to reach for? When I ache inside, wishing, wishing for more.
To be understood, not unfairly judged, acknowledged, not cast aside or looked upon with a negative view. It’s as simple as realising sometimes, an understanding embrace with no words is enough.
My woven creations may be catastrophes to some, but for others perhaps they are their lingering answers.
Certain events which should not be shared, is this reality a truth? Why should I be ashamed to speak of my former agonising, my anguishing pains, or what I went through behind the scenes, behind those doors, and beneath those evil sockets?
Are my experiences too triggering, should I be silenced? Should I not dare to speak? But nonsense! I will utter my truths and even in the silences I will allow the listener to truly feel.
Because after over a decade of being what the world could only call a despicable mess, I can call myself a survivor.
Mentally speaking, I’ve reached that glorious healthy plateau, And if I want them to, I could allow deliciously proud tears to run down my cheeks, my hiccoughing sobs to carry others to my secretive room, my precious pride of place.
For the time for mourning what has been acquired or what has been lost has long passed, I am free, at least less encumbered, and I now need to be brave and not hold anyone’s hand, because I will make it, and as for this loneliness, this too, shall pass.
The apparition comes in the dead of night One unblinking unnerving pupil A ghastly flowing body
He enters my dreams soundlessly Through the cavities of my broken mind he travels quite efficiently. Never ceasing to amaze, This apparition knows how to communicate entirely wordlessly.
How he emphasises his point Drives into the ground his defiance That his phantasmagoric appearance is required For with the night he has made an alliance.
Tucked away within my mind is he The corners and avenues where he travels does he Knowing solely what he is looking for That one key for opening that mighty blocking locked door.
Then my secrets will spill forth, All, the lot of them To be viewed, To be sifted through by him.
He will never find that key Never, not even in my weakened state of sleep My dreams now provide a barrier Impenetrable they are, No gaps, the lock is heavy, wrought, and my intention for it complete.
Phantom, you may now take leave of this scene, Your presence is unrequired here, Your expulsion is as exactly as it seems.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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