The sadness doesn't really pass because the storm has gone.
Now the sun shines brightly and burns its mark onto my pale skin
I am still afraid to walk into the light, to be among others.
The scars on the outside are long gone though it itches,
beneath the skin, beneath the China wall of protection;
the organs on the inside, once reliable turns to liquid.
The pillars are no more yet they believe in sodden limestone;
the chalk of my heart now can only draw crooked lines.
The protective circles, the ghost's mandala has lost all magic.
When she holds my hand; the suffering old woman,
there is a bit of me who wants to hang on, to try and heal;
and then the moon falls and sun rises and I turn to ash.
(November 4, 2006)