RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Violins Of Life
Violins of life playing tunes within a mind, clairvoyantly
discussing terms of impossibilities, researching notes of
memories past, recalling to mind the hate and abuse.
Recording musical melodies played in pathways of inner
mindful waking, clouds, hazy, parting ways of remembering,
injuring the tender caresses of fanciful partaking, the cold,
drab iciness of the past.
Where can hurting end? Is it always to be within? Echoes of
long-lasting repertoires sandwiched tightly for ages, lightly
being touched, the delicate strings attached to music of a
Draping its' arms about universal inner depths of mindful
shaking, quaking in the memories that are so hateful,
burying life forever beneath debris, focusing from the past.
So all-consuming, forming patterns which cannot be broken,
new messages trying to find their ways in darkness, daring
to bring hope, a little light into a being.
Being rejected on an hourly basis, where every single minute
has become the very next hour, counting down the seconds
still leads to the same excuses, the old patterns of living
dare not give up.
Strengthening new insight is never very easy, all of life
begins to form and take shape in new meanings, forgetting to
let go of the past, slowly forging, using every bit of energy
to just keep going, attempting to build a life from absolutely nothing.
Like victims of a flood, beginning again with all new stuff,
their entire life's possessions ruined by water, inner
feelings stained by tears of abuse is a long and hard journey
to recover from.
Lasting memories devouring minds, constantly taking away any
semblance to other's daily living, alone, lost on deserted
shores of another's making.
Lying buried in the sand, forgetting to get up as the ocean's
salty waves flow over, rising higher, until life has been
erased like the writing in the sand by children.
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