We should care first and love next
I came across this poem the other day and it reminded me of all the amazing carers I have had the pleasure of meeting at Quest for Life both at the centre and out in the community and I thought I would share it with you all.
We care because we love.
We love because we care,
It’s as natural as breathing in freshest Air.
To love, hope and strive and continue to care.
This circle of caring, life, love and hope.
That’s what helps us continue and aids us to cope.
There’s another circle, it’s hopeless and bleak, a black hole.
It pulls down Carers, and so saddens their soul.
Some support is needed to help Carers through.
Please make sure they get it, it’s all up to you.
We can help with support and speak our mind.
For one day as Carers ourselves we may find.
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The February sun,
Its glare blinding my sight,
Reveals only the cold of snow
Drifted like prison walls
Confining my spirit
Within the longing of hope.
Long afternoon shadows,
Devouring streaks of light,
Portend the time coming
When the darkness descends,
Drawing the soul inward
To touch reality.
The morning leaves its mark,
A black smudge on my brow
But ashes and decay,
What I was and will be
Except for this moment.
This is hidden from me,
Though upon my person
Is the sign of my fate.
For me to see on you,
The truth about myself
Actual grief erodes with time in written form, but its memory lingers on still
A well written piece. Impressive.
The long days,
the forgotten nights,
have left me scarred and depleted;
I’d consumed my fill
of sour cabbage and cheap whiskey
and slept on damp piles of rotting leaves,
wrapping myself in regret and self pity.
There were, of course, lucid moments;
when the wind would caress my cheek
softly, like the touch of an angel,
and in those moments,
I made vows not meant for keeping.
My coat, now threadbare
and reeking of last night’s vomit and rain,
has been my home;
I dwell deep within its folds,
seeking some comfort there
and finding none, toss it to young mulatto boy,
who will be dead before winter finishes lashing
his heroin scabbed flesh.
But listen, my friend –
I have known joy and love,
and those in copious measure,
when I was young and foolish enough
to believe that even the wilted rose retained her charm.
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