This poem is dedicated to anyone who is struggling.
Low
Low, is a place
that well I know;
dark and alone, time slows;
eerie light, shadow.
Low, is a place
that devours all space;
brings tears to my face;
stabbing pains of disgrace.
Low, is a place
too well I know;
where I grudgingly go;
when the demons say so.
Low, is a place
known not to the young;
a foul taste on the tongue;
a black song harshly sung.
Low, is a place;
vile air, so gritty;
tiny thoughts, itty-bitty;
eternal home of self-pity.
But Low, is just a place.
That. I now know.
Like a bad dream so
awful, but only a show.
Low, is just a place;
a lonely blacktop
to cross. A shop
to pass, not stop.
Low, is a just a place
like dung in the soil.
It’s stench rotten, yet does it toil
so new growth may roil.
Low, is a just a place;
a pausing space to be;
a vantage point to see
those most dear to me.
Low, is just a place
from which to measure
the memories of pleasure
and the people I treasure.
Low, is just a place
which I must go;
to reflect, then to grow
in love that I already know.
Eric Winger
April is National Poetry Month
