by Yvette Durham

Created on: June 28, 2010

She thought she had found happiness:

It was in the enticing glare of clothes shops,

humming into rails of dresses, fondling bulky jewelry.

Whatever Fashion dictated.

She left, saddled with glossy bags; in them promises of

Beauty,

Acceptance.

Happiness was in an alcoholic mist,

where inhibitions were not permitted.

It lay in this enhanced version of herself;

skin sheeny with confidence,

eyes wide in mischievous anticipation,

body writhing into soulless beats.

Happiness was chatting into empty faces;

faces that prayed only on her exterior virtues.

Stumbling into amorous arms,

drunken encounters with puffed-up masculinity;

thick aftershave, sweaty body crevices, sickly sentiments.

But Little Miss Me-Me grew:

So with it, her version of happiness too.

Clean

Simple

Regretless is happiness now.

It’s found in her toddler’s doughy arms, clamped around her neck.

In a stroll through a crickets concert, marking summer’s eve,

fingers woven into her husband’s.

Happiness is savored in a hearty family meal;

cooked in ceaseless gabble and a

beautiful chaos of

spilt merlot, clunking dishes, spirited children tugging on aprons.

Happiness is melting into grateful prayers as birds-

exhilarated in morning-

chitter her awake.

It’s those friends, whom nourish the soul,

band aid private hurts,

resonate with her idiocrasies and

adore her eccentricities. 

In the silent chamber of her consciousness

she learnt:

Happiness cannot be pulled into your heart from false gods,

materialistic pursuit.

It shines out in tranquil sublimity, from one who flourishes in Love,

with Peace at their root.

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