Hey Dana Jane

Tag: Creative Writing

  • The Wanderer’s Lament

    Through fog-bound streets of ashen hue,
    Where gas lamps flicker, cold and few,
    I tread a path both dim and wide,
    Yet find no beacon at my side.

    The cobbled way, it twists and turns,
    Each corner mocks, each lantern burns—
    Yet never bright enough to show
    The place from whence I used to know.

    Oh, time! Thou art a fickle guide,
    With fleeting whispers, cast aside.
    Once, fortune’s hand did point me true,
    But now I chase the wind and rue.

    My purpose, lost to swirling mist,
    A name once held, now but a wisp.
    The echoes call in hollow tone,
    Yet every voice is not my own.

    I beg the night to yield its veil,
    To show some truth behind the tale—
    But fate, it grins, it turns, it jeers,
    And leaves me wandering with my fears.

    So on I roam, through gloom and doubt,
    Till fate or mercy leads me out.
    Yet should I walk these streets so grim,
    Perchance I’ll find myself within.

    -DJT

  • The Mirror of Grief

    The aim is not to untangle the past,
    to pull each thread and weave a new story,
    not to mend the frayed edges of memory
    with needles of reason or spools of time.
    No, the past is not clay,
    and we are not potters shaping its hardened form.

    It is the weight we carry,
    pressed into the soft earth of our becoming,
    an indelible signature of what was.
    We do not correct the rain for falling,
    nor the storm for its fury.

    Instead, therapy is the mirror held close,
    its surface dark and reflective,
    daring us to meet the gaze of our own ghosts,
    to sit in the company of sorrow
    and call each shadow by its name.

    Here, grief blooms like a strange flower,
    its petals heavy with the dew of acknowledgment.
    We do not prune it; we let it grow,
    wild and tangled in the garden of our truths,
    until the roots touch what has been buried.

    This is not the work of undoing,
    but the slow art of reckoning—
    to confront the echoes
    and let them linger,
    to touch the edges of pain
    and know it as ours.

    Only then, with the past unearthed but unaltered,
    do we breathe in the ache,
    let it fill our lungs like smoke
    until it fades into air,
    leaving us not lighter,
    but freer.

    -DJT