by Mike Hall

Pain is its offspring, despair its byproduct.
Its stab of hurt hurts every time.
But does time heal this wound?
or is each day mourning what has been lost
   like ripping the bandage off – again and again –
reopening the wound of the heart, exposing it once again
   to the agony of pain . . . to the misery of loss.
Does time even dull this pain?
Maybe, little . . . by little . . . by little . . .
unless the heart refuses to release and move on,
doggedly clutching memories of what once was
and is no more or can ever be again,
the longing inviting the pain back in,
inflicting itself with suffering and despair,
chaining itself to the anchor of loss,
beginning a self-imposed death watch on hope,
watching it slowly shrivel and fade,
preparing to open and walk through depression’s door.
If hope disappears . . . what is left?

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Mike Hall is in his 46th year of teaching and has authored two collections of poetry, Autumn’s Back Porch and Thinking Out Loud. More than thirty of his poems have been published in various magazines, including Pure in Heart Stories, Sparks of Calliope, Discretionary Love, Solid Food Press, and Spirit Fire Review. He and his wife, Cynthia, live in the Dallas, Texas area.