Self portrait of a past self without a future
written after the future unexpectedly arrived

The agoraphobe knew no kindness

Remembered no kindness

Expected no kindness

Offered self no kindness

Shuddered at the thought

The husk deserved kindness

Impervious to kindness

Scornful of kindness

Stone cold and nails ragged

Hanging on from day to day

Receding further into self

Where self found naught

But night without stars

Showing no way but no way

Shrinking further with each tick

Each tock, each tick,

tock, tick tock

Until buried deep enough in

The earth of despair

For long enough

Living though not

By most standards

Completely alive

Something else

Started to grow

Softness to self

Forgiveness for self

Acceptance of self

Feet firm on ground

At the bottom

Of the well of self

No longer falling

Able to stand

Able to imagine

Tomorrow might be different

Tomorrow might be different

And be proven wrong

Over and over and over

And over and over

Again and
again and

And falling to the bottom
Of the well of self

Over and
over and

Again and
again and again

Yet still here, still here,
still here

Eyes slowly opening to
the world

Hands becoming newer

Hands that showed care

To the other hand until

A world that did in fact

Contain more kindness

Than the agoraphobe

Imagined possible

(When loneliness
Borne of isolation
Froze imagination
Into crystalline place
Where only cold
Could be felt
So deeply
That nothing
But the cold
Could enter Their perceptions)

Became more visible

As the mirage of


Conjured by inner fear

Began to shimmer-fade

And realities not solely

Constructed within self

Began to painfully slowly

Take on seeable shapes

Forming an Oasis

By Will Ford copyright 2021

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