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Virago E DeSante

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Struggle in Satin
by Virago E DeSante
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Virago E DeSante
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           >> View all 34


So the numbness, once so familiar
has passed on through the
innards of consciousness
and has been swallowed
into the cesspool of a deep,
stagnant depression.
Where now are the
sparkling genius countenances
of the last year?
The very mode
which pulled me from my
listless apathetic existence
is where I dwell still,
yet all stand by in observance
as the slide into
the oblivious and intollerable
persists and drags.
I am trying.
I claw my way to the surface
my fingers bleeding with the effort
my eyes are bloodshot
and I can barely see through tears
I scrape my way alone
every inch an agony
to be happy
to be happy maybe for an hour
a day
as long as I might sustain.
Sorrow lies with me
I wrap her around me every night
and sink into her satiny embrace.
I seek her out as a dear friend
a cold comfort when I'm in pain,
when I long for what is denied me.
Satin slides, winds round my neck.
Her constricting
slithering breath steals mine
as I struggle
gasping to reach the surface.
Rubbing raw perpetual wounds
I cannot focus
long enough to clarify
or to ameliorate the situation.
I need for so much.
I grieve for the loss of so much
that staying cannot give.
But to be without
would deny me so much more
To be without...
How then can I escape
and yet stay still in this place?
How can I court fortune
when he dances above the precipice?
His wicked grimace mocks a smile at me
when he spots my wistful gaze.
This dance of avoidance and denial,
this lingering, festering
self-emforced stagnation,
and no one can hear my muffled cries.
No one is listening hard enough
to hear them for what they are.
No one will reach to me in my travail
to wipe the filth from my mind.
Hold on to me until the seizure passes.
Nurture the fragile trust
given by a skittish
frightened, abused animal.
Grateful, appreciative, gratified
for what is given,
but the truth is often
so difficult to discern.
He dances outside of my reach.
I am always wanting more.
He dances a breath away,
allows a touch and sprints away,
and I am emptier
for having felt his heat.
I am alway wanting more.
I perpetually plummet
a world without an orbit
or a star to gaze upon.
I spin in the darkness,
the murky waters
pull in deeper.
Tendrils tangle struggling feet
affixing this sad position.
I am but a moth
taken from life
pinioned under glass
and shoved in a drawer

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Reviewed by Anna Marie Fritz (Reader) 1/14/2005
It's been a long time since I saw your name in the list. Glad I
checked into this, is an excellent piece of writing!
Isn't it something how depression seems to dredge out the unseen
pains of our soul?
If you go to my pages on BiPolar articles, you will no doubt find
your agonies in similar famous people.
Reviewed by Sue Hess 1/14/2005
excellent reminds of the times i am trying to pull myself from the depths of depression
Reviewed by Sandie Angel 1/14/2005
A very creative write. Well-done!

Sandie May Angel :o)
Reviewed by Paul Berube 1/14/2005
This is so well written. You are very talented. A special gift indeed. Thanks for posting.
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd (Reader) 1/14/2005
Yes but I like moths and enjoyed this write.
Reviewed by Alain Gracio 1/14/2005
Nihilism at its best. Well put in writing!
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