A Letter from D.
Dear x
I’m sitting alone...at home . If you could call this home.. It has rooms
... Lots of Rooms..corridors. Marble and Urns
Polished floors ...sweeping stairs
All my-selves are gathered here
... the people I’ve been...and who I now am..are present with me
All that clings to the membrane of my memory
Shows no mercy .
It delivers a pain with the skill of the samurai’s sword
I have not been able to eradicate from my heart the grief I had as a child..
Rising up from the dark of my life
.... like a poisonous sap in a tree
It kills something in me..everyday
I’m in fear of the dark... the night
The Noir.
... from the black of a sleepless bed I have lost all my colour
Only shades of myself now exist.
Catching the sight of the rising sun is
The dawn of another painful day...
It serves not to greet me...but only remind me
Of the bodily suffering of my existence.
For all that I have...as it might appear to be
..I hear only the sound of my own weeping...growing louder ..more desperate
My eyes claw at the window for hope
I no longer see the green leaves on the trees
Death for me.. is life
I am small in these rooms.
The cliche of privilege...gone wrong
The jewels give no love...they are stones
If only they knew...
Here in the gardens with gates high to the sky...I wander as lonely as any street child
In my heart I am homeless,
A vase ley to the ground...now useless pieces
Of what it once was.
In a guilded room I am she..
Who rushes to purge as a way to consume and erase.
My sons are dates on a calendar now...
... moulded by the ways of the World ...not by me.
I’m writing this letter to you ...dear unknown from Kensington Gds..t
Yours with best wishes...from D
Kristine Byrne 25th April 2012
.