GOOD TRIP

[dadio]

It was a good trip or maybe
It was a dream she couldn’t
Quite tell it seemed all sensibility
Was pretty much muddled and
Her last realistic memory was
Hodgson giving her a drink and
Then things just seemed to dissolve
Into a swirl of images and sounds
And feelings of falling and being
Lifted up and put down and some
Clown trying to do things to her
Which her mother had said was
Not the thing that good girls did or
Let be done to them and a thought
Pushed itself through her mind
And poked at her and she saw her
Brother drowned in the bath with
His thin wrists slit and his few paintings
Left behind hung on the wall of his
Room and inside her as she lay someplace
The unfolding vision of his distraught face.

[Kailashana]

Sometimes one never returns from a trip.

Loved the poem and the painting. Thank you Terry.

~A

[dadio]

Indeed not, Anna. Thank you for reading.