The birthing place

Sometimes it seems as though I lived my entire life

With an awareness of death

It was the quiet and silent visitor that stole in When I was only young

Taking those I loved But did not yet know fully with my mind

Only through a body That expanded under the benevolence of their attention

That was then gone Leaving a hollow emptiness A child could never fill alone

And all this happened before my mind could even fully register the blow

And so it seemed I was always living Sideways turned

With a gaze fixed upon Doors that were closing

Not knowing if or when they would open again

And so I just endured the leavings As we do

But inner rebellion was there expressed under the cover of shadows

A silent protest Screamed through it all Inadmissable to my mind

(Yesterday you told me “delinquency is the final protest of the true self”)

So now when comings and goings Tear my flesh And stop my breath

I turn my attention to a heart That imprisoned in my chest Seems to have silently skipped some beats

I notice the impact of being

The one who waited and endured

And could not dare to think of leaving

Because I knew the pain of that kind of loss

But now I realise how much pain there is in endings

(Which are also births and new beginnings)

And I question how true freedom ever be found without some loss

For does not the day die every night?

And at daybreak does not night and darkness just surrender itself to the light ?

And so I remember that there is always with this leaving A necessary grieving but also a kind of healing

And in the wings life waits on death Eyes fixed on a door that is closing

With a heart no longer Undone by it

That recognises it

As the birthing place