The Creek

Welcome to my Shangri-la
Here, the trees bend and coat the creek
In a kaleidoscope of breathless leaves.
They drifted like my memory
That now lay possessed by tragedy.
I once found comfort in such a sleep
As the fading hues of the leaves.
But the moments captured by cunning dreams
Only made a mockery of (what is?) my reality.

Prolonged I have slept–
Certainty soon slipped away.
By the time I did awake,
Delusions imprisoned my day…
The grief, the sorrow,
I mourned for the world.
The tears bit my cheeks
In the ripened autumn cold.
The Shangri-La I left a month ago
Transposed into a whisper
That echoed a sound
Of lifeless conversation
Between my feet and the ground.
As the wind stirred the trees
There was no melody
But an eery humming
That kept reminding me…
Insanity, insanity,
You cannot escape your insanity…

Mania creeps up like a long awaited guest
Surely late but always preferred to that depressions mess.
She makes the night bearable and welcomes every day
Telling me my Shangri-la can be in what I create.
So I loose myself completely in my much forgotten art.
Recalling the patterned iridescence I left at the park.
The haunting of the creek again appearing in my view–
Similarly to the trauma that spring did ensued.
But I no longer call upon the escape as I did before,
Sleep-deprived and heavy-eyed
My mind will endure.


About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Bipolar Disorder, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The Creek

  1. Shirley Gibula says:

    Samantha. I love it. Thank you

    Sent from my iPad


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