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The Conversation

By John I. Blair

I go each week,
Sit there on the couch,
Talk to the man.

I tell of sleepless nights,
Long minutes silent in my chair
Without the will to move,

Forcing myself to eat
When Iíve no appetite,
No pleasure in the food.

These are symptoms,
Not the cause,
Not the dark root,

The root that snakes down
Through layered hopes,
Dreams, disappointments,

Slow comprehension
My life is not as I had thought
That it would be.

We havenít settled
On a plan;
I donít really see one.

But the conversation
Helps me feel
Someone understands,

Helps me pray
That facing my despair
Brings purpose to my days.

©2019 John I. Blair, 2/20/2019


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