The Picture On The Wall
She wakes to a pool of light reflecting their bedroom,
Which now seems lonely and out of sight,
She turns over to his side of the bed,
Where his imprint is still warm and his lingering manly smell,
She knows her mind is far from well,
Her husbands affair is carving up her tender heart,
Into smaller, bleeding parts.
What did she do so wrong?
They were the couple in every love song,
Snatching happiness with a certainty, that comes with trust,
But it has turned into a heap of dust,
Choking her emotions with a pain so real,
Crying at the ordeal of his constant lying.
Their kids are still asleep, innocent faces and tousled hair,
Always in her loving care.
Her needs are now unfulfilled like a barren field,
Left to scorch in the heat of the day,
Producing nothing but a few salty tears,
Relentless trauma of this secret drama.
Eating is a struggle, as he is her heartbeat,
Now he is her husband of deceit.
She looks at her water colour painting on their wall,
A picture of the Twelve Bens, in the wild landscape of Connemara,
It speaks to her of younger years, when she again had struggled,
She started painting feeling like nothing,
Changing her into a girl with a special something.
Her teacher had praised her talent.
The blueness of the mountain range, in the western light of the sky,
Taking her away from living this lie,
It beckoned her with hope of finding inner strength,
To free her inner turmoil and go to the west,
To find her talent and to be at her very best.
Wandering soul gathers freedom of old,
To new pastures and mountains that hint at inner peace,
The heartache will cease,
Into the west, with kids aboard,
Like she has found the courage to defend with a mighty sword,
Her picture on the wall has made her hold herself tall,
A magical, mystical journey, of her soul returning.
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