O heavy, hollow, heart, so unsure of
itself, so afraid, as if it’s done wrong.
I confide, coming out of my shell, with love
in my heart that pains me so, song of song,
and I’m more vulnerable yet, but I
cannot stop, the walls are closing in—
the person I rejected, to get sober, nigh
to me, resurfaces, and I can’t win.
Face up to it—there’s no other option,
fifty-four books deep, exhausted, nowhere
to run, or hide—here comes the morning sun,
and with it His desire, driving me there,
forty-eight years old, I dawn on me,
can’t shut me out any longer, a knocking
at my door, O heavy heart, let me be.
No wonder it’s hard to watch TV, and sing
my heart out—I’m two different people,
the one estranged from the other, barely
knowing each other, no matter how full
I am of them both, loving each, separately,
as if I could keep that up forever.
They are the same person—I must be of
one mind, taking the fear I would sever,
and allowing myself to feel His love.
I don’t have much to gain, or lose, so it
should be safe, for the most part, to be
myself—and yet, if I am, there’s no respite,
there’s no going back, there’s reality,
my circumstances, and no hope, hereof,
for a change—I’m at the end of the line,
there’s no escaping my fate, dreaming of
chance encounters, a function of His design,
for me, necessarily isolated by,
and for, the people I love. The levy
breaks, the compartment is awash; I see
no real future but the life I must own,
applying pressure, like a vice, to each
person I have been, and can no longer
be. I feel like an idiot—I beseech
myself—feel these feelings, and conquer
your fears, and let go. But these feelings
would seem to go on forever, without
acceptance, without peace; solitude stings
when you’re in need—you already doubt
yourself—you must help yourself, and you
don’t know how. So I bide my time, stay
sober, take every stingy measure I can to
relax, to mitigate it, to be okay.
How long, O heavy heart, will you pain me
so, punishing me for that which was, and
is, beyond my control? I try, and foresee,
every choice, option, and demand.
What can I do, for the love of what’s true,
but give it time, taking life as it comes,
in a sober state, await what’s due,
no matter how long it takes, sum of sums—
infinite time, now, is at stake. I’m lost,
to myself, and to others, if I should
try and escape. I am living at cost,
with no direction home—to what I would be
if, for example, I had help. But I must
go it alone—or, that is to say, with only
Him, in my heart, to feel the pang and thrust
of coming to terms, now, with my TV.