If distraction were meant to heal
then how in the world could we feel.
We seem to believe we must move forward.
How do we prevent not being so toward?
Wish we some peace when hell seems to thrive
when each moment our pains echo our lives.
Speak upon the courtesy of a fear
even when that risk is losing someone dear.
Aren’t we told to navigate our word,
contemplate thresholds without the absurd
actions of that disparate contrived, bellow.
Would that life could live a moment mellow.
A frame of reference certainly the goal
to avoid at all cost that spiraling hole.
Where gifts of nature quietly disappear
life seems different, reminds one to appear.
© Thom Amundsen 10/2021