Coming To Terms With Trauma Poem by Rayn Roberts

Like the silence of those who deny truth, the silence in Death Valley
Nearly denies my being-

It is a dreadful void the white silence of my sister the moon
She is alien, empty, my sorrow, the hurt:

The Chaste Huntress bound and tied, her mouth taped shut
While her own dogs rip and devour her.

I thought I knew the language of stars, the word in a stone
The sigh of clouds-

Salt flat, wasteland, bad water… Hour on hour looking down a chasm
Sing to me, Stone, comfort me, Cloud

I cannot see myself walking out of here… Mother me, Star
I stumble over moonlight into morning knowing nothing, knowing nothingness