Intimate space

Cold is the pine park bench beneath my body,
and harsh is earth below it.

Serious was its carpenter,
and with a stern face he worked.

Family to feed, shelter to earn.
Worries built into his creation.

Stress and concerns that seeps from the timber
floats into the evening air.

There I lay on a bench of worry,
occupying a world of hurt.

Just small enough that the bench is a perfect bed,
My feet on the armrest, hands under my head.

In my pine box I barely exist.

If given the chance to shut my eyes
The subtle move would be my demise.

In this spot the earth would consume,
and I would be defeated.

But the view above swallows all pain,
Every hurt muted by the sight.

The stars shine above in a blanket of song.
Music of angels, my heart is made strong.

Under a blanket of comfort I lie,
Humbled by its design I dare not cry.

A selfish act to breath or blink,
I pause while new life is granted.

Brave the world I will tomorrow,
Armed with hope to conquer sorrow.

A sky full of promise to shelter the pain,
each star fuels one effort to try again.