Centre self

Sometimes
as I sit by a clouded window
and scribble passing thoughts
half finished on to cold pains
trying to pin motives and reasoning
on distant chaos

In the brief calm before the next storm
I think of me
the me I barely remember
as I once almost was
the hands I must have had
to hold so strong
to the shape of purpose
the mind I must have had
to mold so much meaningless into shape
what would I give
to have that clear sight again?
the strength to carry heavy loads without breaking

My hand trembles
aching for distraction
and I think a little more
of how brief a time there was a me
delicate for all its boldness
A petal carried by a flood

Chest heavy, I wonder
if anyone saw it passing by
Or If I was lost amongst the torrents
like the drops of rain
never noticed
before falling out of sight