Through - a poem

Sunset at Cape Kiwanda, Pacific City and Haystack Rock - click to enlarge.

Through

She asked if I made it through.
Never sure how to respond
Never sure when the process is completed
Never sure how it all starts
No, not through yet, but doing better.

I never liked the word 'funk.'
Not because it sounds like a four letter bomb
Not because it makes me look week or unpredictable
Not funky is like not spoiled or ruined
I feel ruined - but only for a little while.

We carefully search through the inventory of our lives
Only to discover that the entire stock of our character
Has been invested for this mortal epoch.
And the sadness sneaks in.
I hope to get through this time.