Nocturnal Works Narrative Therapy

The Ride

The stomp, the crunch, the shake, the earth did quake.
He moved from side to side, his body slumped.
The voices would not die, repeating now.
They called to him from darkness still.
Inside the pain was twisted, pulsating,
The voices, faces - pleading, seeking peace.
He could not give what they seek, those beyond.
But yet they called to him still from the night.
Dispel the voices just a moment by,
Consuming spirits strong and not yet aged.
To swat them away, he moves out his hand.
They move as puffs of smoke, ever beyond.
His breath expelled into the void ahead.
His body leaned to one side, shifting weight.
Ever moving, the horse in disgust neighed.
The last moment he would regain his seat.
Each day to wait for those long gone from here,
To open one’s eyes each day hearing them.
The burden that is memories - the gift.
They remain his companions in the dark.
The darkness calls and waits for a response.
From darkness comes a face, a face he knows.
Anyone, he pleads, but not you - away!
His screams on deaf ears fall, no one is there.
His screaming frightens his old companion,
The horse begins to bolt through fog and night.
Its rider shaken from the past at last,
He tries to regain his centre - no avail.