The Place Where My Sorrow Lives

The place where my sorrow lives is very quiet
the kind of room where you might fall asleep.

The place where my sorrow lives is dusty
with muted colors and shy shadows.

I go in that space on tiptoe, and try not to cringe
when I see the broken pieces scattered on the dresser.

If you listen carefully you can hear a beautiful song
amidst the high pitched chimes by the window.

There is a faint scent of incense, Dragon's Blood
dripping its red onto the floor.

I do not go in to this place, so utterly secluded
unless trying to remember where to go from there.

The place where my sorrow lives is very quiet
where smiles flutter like busy butterflies.

The place where my sorrow lives is warm
with a hot cup of tea waiting just for you.


Trudi Ralston. 
 This poem is a reminder that we all carry wounds and that they make us as much who we are as our triumphs and joys. True friends are the ones who are not afraid to enter that place of sorrow with us.