Momentary Melancholy



I breathe the salted air,

Feel the ocean water stinging away

At my wounds.

I let the water pull at me,

Let the waves remind me again

(and again) that

I am here, present, grounding

me into the physical material

of this world when my mind caves

into its own void.



I focus on the wind…

how it blows,

Does it whisper me death

or beckon me to life?

I must decide.

(But have I the heart to?)


The waves hush the turmoil,

soothe it away…

and I want to live, live, live…


I don’t know if I can,

(or how)

but maybe just wanting it

is enough,

for now.



I say nothing, nod, and stare

at the waves—

try to avoid how badly it hurts

to want,

to dream,

to hope…


Feel your hand over mine,

and I resist the despair.

Tethered at least to you,

I can’t drown too far,

I have something to fight for. 



Haunts, with the poison

of momentary melancholy—

but teethless.

(they cannot bite)

Simply the bones

at the bottom of the sea,

are these drowning ghosts,

these memories. 



Still working on survival,

but I’ve come far enough,

fought hard enough,

for a few hours’ rest

in the dark,

still fighting

still hoping

still longing

for an eternity of peace

with my Savior. 



And more than living,

we are eternal,

guarded by a ghost Holier

than all others.


If we are to be wounded,

we are to be all the more healed

because of it.


The scars remain, reminders

of the journey and the truth

that where there is sin and darkness,

grace and beauty





So cling with open fists,

hold fast to our Resurrected Hope.

Surrender to the rest of faith,

release the struggle for control.

May peace be with our souls

as we rely on the Perfection of the


whose Glory is made greatest

when we are weakest.


For these daily deaths

of the old self let us become

who we always have been

in Him,

sons and daughters,



Forever and ever





So Let It Be,

The Scribbler


About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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