This Desolate Place.

That deep aching, from comfort seems immune,
These are wastelands for all but painful shards,
An emptiness within an emptiness.
A skin-tearing void.

Hope’s rays scattered against the sullen, sodden sky,
obliterated by layers after layers of interminable grief,
welling like western shores’ pounding swells.
Seeming endless.

Is this the road to perdition? Or that hellish place itself?
That sucks breath out of the pumice-rocked belly
And squeezes the tightly-held heart till almond-sized.
Blood-letting in a bloodless place.

Almost as a child having died, a life taken long before time,
guilt exacts its price, asking relentless riddles.
Was it words unsaid? Or deeds not done?
Answers flood in, where no answers can fathom.

Solace is thin in this God-forsaken pit,
‘Tis hard to hear Tennyson’s Augustinian dirge,
of Love and Loss and their bittersweet hymn:-
Cherish a love that’s passed – the world’s the better for its being.

Our world’s the better for its being.

This Desolate Place.

QuarryHeight

Blackrock, Ireland

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

About grieving a special relationship.

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