Poetry As Therapy

Dennis Zimmerman, M.DIV., M.A., D. MIN., a chaplain for Compassus of Cleveland, is working through his grief by writing poetry. “I will warn you it is a bit ‘raw’ as grief, in my experience, is raw,” he writes.

Gone

Gone!
Numbness and void.
Blessed Oblivion!
But, maybe it is not so,
didn’t happen,
was just a nightmare dream.
But then, … gone.
Searing, white-hot pain tears breath from lungs,
sight from eyes,
strength from knees.
But all that is the easy part.
No one told me about the bleak, barren LONELINESS.
How “future” dissolves in a boiling acid bath of “nope…, not ever gonna’ happen.”
Gone.
Not misplaced,
a little late,
around here someplace,
will show up soon.
Just, … gone,
stolen,
taken from me,
destroyed,
obliterated, never to be seen again.
Never again.
And the chasm left behind is un-fill-able,
un-fathom-able,
a permanent, ugly scar that will never be covered up,
hidden,
erased from memory,
denied.
For “We” is gone.
Life and love, peace and joy will bring renewal and courage and hope somewhere, someday –
perhaps everywhere, everyday — but not there, not in that broken, gaping, … gone.
For the scar remains.
A permanent reminder.
A gap.
The price I pay for a “we” that will never quite heal,
can never be fixed,
or repaired,
or replaced,
or go away.
For “we” is … gone.
Knees will find strength.
Eyes will find sight.
Lungs will fill with air.
White-hot will dull to yellow-ache.
Nightmare will lose its terror.
Numbness will fade.
Void will fill.
But gone remains …
Gone.