A Spectrum of Emotion

Mar 08, 2026

Morning clouds hang heavy,
matching the weight of my heart.
Both mournful.
Neither carries light—
not even a dying ember.

I don’t understand why.

All good news.
Medical tests.
No angry words from a neighbor.

Still—

she crossed the threshold,
physically, emotionally,
bringing rage and accusation
into my home, my studio—
sacred to me.

Others called the police.
I did not.

I pray for the pain beneath her rage.
Still,
violent thoughts rise.

Shame visits.
Guilt. Remorse.
Tears.

I am Rumi’s guest house—
without welcome.

This rage
is not the world’s,
not hers.

It is mine.

Anger at myself.
I forgot I was human.
Flawed.
Sometimes beautifully;
sometimes not.

Here is what I know:

This week
I saw naked truths and raged.

Anger passed.
I love the day ahead again.

This heart softens.

What have I written?

nothing
just rough notations
on one cold morning in March

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