#burning muse

I have felt embarrassed by my CPTSD, And there are days when all I do is sleep. The hours I devote to trauma-focused CBT Are nuances of my life that others don't see.

My soul was awakened by a golden ochre dawn, Holding the grief that tore apart a 1940s house, Softly illuminating shallow lies, a dark sociopath, Who always stood in the way, white-bread trash, That silently overshadowed an autumn paradise.

It was incredibly heartbreaking for our family, Who ached to be there as I attended therapy. But prayed at home, awaiting the healed me. We all witnessed the work of everyday angels, Here on earth, who had found, piece by piece, Beauty in the fragmented, traumatic memories, Of a kind, empathetic, beautiful, and loving soul, The woman whose love had brought her home.

Swept into the arms of love, That is both gentle and kind, Finding myself in tears cried, In the loss of a selfish hatred That forced me to draw a line. I am the echoes in the silence A love, he'll keep searching for, In all the wounds that bloomed, Gracefully, through the storm.

My soul rests on boughs of autumn trees, Where shadows dance in the gentle breeze, A poison softly lingers, into scentless, light, Diluting echoes of renewal, artful diatribes.