I
was born to darkness, coddled in light, to stumble through
memories.
“It was never me,” she uttered. “It was the
addiction...so
I am not held responsible for those actions.”
Where
was I, a mere adult, battling between decades? She
moved
to another topic; but hell was due for pay; and how
to
reason with wrongless, where a soul is screaming to
wrongful?
“I’m sorry you feel that way; but I learned
something
different.” Her words fetched with pride; and
such
was absent; to suffocate where a child mourned. He’s
there,
wrestling through cathedrals, peering into images.
How
for simple?—to avoid pain, where silence is vicious. I
needed
more where more was fabrication spent in venom; but
never
should I dare: she wouldn’t allow it; but ever she gave
it.
Such for standards, and morals to ashes, bent on faces; so
I
asked, “What for pain, a mind of briers, a hell of woes?”
“I’m
sorry,” she said; “but I can’t be held accountable for the
old
me.” I tussle with this; for it cleanses nothing; and
closure
is more an open wound. What for love, compassion,
and
human decency? She expected these things...where
behavior
was due for an overhaul. I speak lightly—to present
the facts, affected
by a copout.
