The End of The Fall

Okay, here are the last 3 poems in the 22 poem cycle of "The Fall". Next post will NOT be poetry! I hope to start discussing living with chronic pain by then. Thanks for sticking with me through "The Fall"!

TWENTY: Second Cut

Is it the Abyss I see
reflected on your faces;
my own disbelief echoed
off your hearts?
How strong you are not to weep --
how brave you make me feel.
I am older now --
these years have worn me well;
I do not harden to granite
nor do I compact to lava or ice.
Your faith now warms me,
fades ancient resentments
to transparencies.
You are opaque and strong;
this time you believe the myth.
I will be Herculean in
my motion,
I will not tremble or quake
as the wound is cunningly
reopened and, once more,
the tremendous length of
healing is set to begin.

TWENTY-ONE: Facing It

On the walls,
my past watches as I
remain upright for
weeks on end;
rich colors keep vigil
from canvases I
can no longer touch.
This is a new loss;
the sacrifice of the sun.
Against the colors I
remain helpless;
I rely on time and
gravity to move me.
As I sit
encased in filaments
of sand and gauze,
I dream of brushes
and paint;
only in dreams am i
what I was.
Supported,
I walk the halls,
venture into the light.
But even now I know
what change is.
On the walls,
my paintings weep.

TWENTY-TWO: The Present

And now I walk upright,
flowing with the days,
allowing gravity to haunt me,
nightly taking measure of each step.
The Abyss looms to my right,
never quite out of reach,
out of sight.
In the Hellish wind
nightmares walk beside me;
I am falling most of all.
I breathe,
respect the placement of
each foot in the new Paris Smoke rug,
admire the pain that lingers
as pungent as fresh
garlic on my window sills.
Nothing is forgotten.
Tonight I sleep with furious dreams.
In the morning
I will wake,
I will stand,
and I will applaud each
turn of toe,
each arabesque that dusts
my careful path
along the devious trench
at my feet.