Maybe Underneath the Bed Is Sadness
Maybe underneath
the bed is sadness,
Even in the ecstasy of
life,
Rejoicing in the gift of man and
wife,
Reveling in existential gladness.
Yes,
maybe at the heart of things a madness
Cuts through the
flesh of pleasure like a knife,
Harrowing the soul with
inner strife,
Replacing good with unrepentant
badness.
If so, reason not with your
despair;
So deep a wound requires deeper
healing,
Too deep for any deft divining
rod.
More than meaning, you are simply
there,
A wonder steeped in incandescent
feeling,
Still wrapped in swaddling clothes, the child of
God.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
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