Chronic pain is, well…

chronic.

It flows through you

like a deep black river.

Treading, floating, dog paddle, side stroke.

The swimmer’s strength is irrelevant.

Eventually you’ll be pulled under,

gasping and flailing - making pleas to the universe,

wondering if this will be the moment you finally drown.

Be we resurface, don’t we?

Determined and resolute.

Perhaps this is punishment, divine retribution

for some unknown sin.

Or, maybe that’s just how the cookie crumbles.

Some people get cookies,

others get just the crumbs.

I can still lick my fingers

taste the dust and remember the joy

of fresh baked chocolate chips in the oven.

The remembrance of joy

is sometimes the only thing that keeps us treading.

The river is dark 

it’s ebb and tide unpredictable.

But here, we make our own light.

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