Inside the dun.
If I could have a penny,
for every time I’ve cried,
o’er things that made no real sense,
I’d be a wealthy guy.
If I could gain a happy thought,
each hundredth time I’ve wept,
I’d step outside this mental dark,
and keep my self-respect.
And if I knew the reason,
my outlook fades to grey,
I’d close that box and lock it up,
for ever and a day.
But these are things that ne’er will be,
despite me wishing so.
No matter how I try to fight,
this curse just won’t let go.
I try to keep it under wraps,
it’s hard for me to share.
For though the world is listening now,
there’s still that stigma there.
The disbelief, the false intent,
the “friends” that move along.
If they can’t see a cut or wound,
there’s really nothing wrong.
But this is not some make believe,
no play for centre stage.
It’s real, and won’t discriminate,
‘tween colour, creed or age.
So live with it, for now I must,
but let me share this truth.
My heart goes out to all those folk,
who live the same way too.
At times we all feel stranded,
lost beyond all scope,
but some stay trapped inside the dun,
without a ray of hope.
So I telegraph my empathy, my sympathy, my ode,
and pray for those who pray to find,
a light to guide them home.
P. A. Davies 2022
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