How it was.

A pattern?
There is no pattern.
How could there be?
All I knew was the tearing inside
Like Prometheus,
Which I felt at the waking of each new day,
After those cruel few seconds
When, just for those fleets of dawn’s eye opening,
I forgot.

There is no pattern.
It just hurts less.
Eventually.

Linking this to Lisa’s prompt at d’Verse poets to write a poem relating ‘to one or more of Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) in relation to your, or another’s, current state of being’:(https://dversepoets.com/2022/05/03/dverse-poetics-small-change-or-big-bucks/). My piece relates to the past. Personally, I do not hold with human experience always following a set pattern of responses.

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